Page 37 of Rest In Peace

As I drove home, my mind was racing with thoughts about what had just happened. Was Matt right? Was I putting myself in harm's way by investigating this case?

I couldn't deny that the possibility of danger scared me, but I also knew I couldn't give up now. There were too many unanswered questions and too many loose ends. And if I didn't find out the truth, who would?

Part III

CAPE CANAVERAL

Chapter 37

The steam from the bowl curled into the air, a fragrant dance of herbs and warmth. Monica sat rigidly, her posture a disciplined arc over the table where the colors of the kitchen—pale blues and sunlight—played upon the surfaces.

"Come on, Victoria," she said, her voice soft but firm, "you need to eat."

Victoria, draped in the shadows of her wheelchair, seemed so small, her presence diminished to the space she occupied beside the table. Monica dipped the spoon into the soup, cradling a careful amount, and lifted it toward Victoria's lips.

"For strength," Monica coaxed, "just a little."

The spoon hovered with an unspoken promise, trembling slightly as if it bore not just sustenance but hope.

Victoria's lips parted, and the spoon’s tepid offering brushed against her tongue. "Ugh," she sputtered, recoiling as though the taste had physical form. "It's awful."

"Shhh…." Monica's brow furrowed in concern. She set the spoon down, reaching across to pat Victoria's hand.

"You know I'm not much of a cook," she said with a half-hearted chuckle. "But it's nutritious. Your body needs this."

"Why does it have to taste so bad?" Victoria muttered, turning her head away.

"I’m doing my best here. Your father," Monica began, the tone of her voice shifting, now edged with a solemn duty, "he asked me to look after you should anything ever happen to him." She locked eyes with Victoria, ensuring the gravity of her words settled between them. "I promised him."

"My mom would've made it taste better," Victoria whispered almost to herself, a tear betraying her stoicism.

"Sarah," Monica scoffed quietly, her hands tightening around the bowl. "She didn't have your best interests at heart. I do, Victoria. I always have." The spoon clinked against the china as Monica gathered another mouthful. "Let's try again, for strength, for your father."

“I don’t want to.”

"But you have to. Open up," Monica said, her voice soft but firm as the spoon approached Victoria's lips once more.

"I can't," Victoria murmured, a hand weakly pushing Monica's away. "It makes me feel sick."

"Victoria, you need to eat." The spoon was insistent, edging closer.

"Please, no more." Her voice was a thin whisper, eyes glistening with the effort of defiance.

Monica paused, her expression hardening. "If you don't eat, we'll have to use the tube."

At the mention of the feeding tube, a shudder coursed through Victoria's frail frame. She looked at Monica, the plea in her eyes raw and unguarded—a tear shaped in the corner of her eye.

"Please, I'll try. Just… not the tube."

"Then, eat," Monica insisted, her tone leaving no room for further protest.

"Okay," Victoria relented, tears spilling over as she opened her mouth to accept another spoonful.

With a spoon poised like a sculptor over marble, Monica waited for the moment of surrender.

"Good girl," Monica praised as if speaking to a young child rather than a teenager confined to the bindings of a wheelchair. With practiced care, she slid the spoon past Victoria's reluctant lips, the warmth of the broth preceding the taste.

Victoria's face contorted, a dance of muscles weaving expressions of disgust and defeat. Her tongue betrayed her, recoiling against the flavor that invaded her mouth.

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