Chapter 3 - The Fatal Dose
The front doorbell didn't ring. In a house like the Winslow estate, people like Dr. Wallace didn't knock; they were admitted through the side service entrance by servants who had been trained to ask zero questions.
I heard the quiet hum of the private elevator rising from the basement level.
"He's coming up," I whispered, my heart pounding against my ribs like a snare drum.
I rushed over to the bedside drawer. My fingers were slippery with cold sweat, but I managed to fit the brass key into the lock, turn it, and slide the drawer open.
I grabbed the thick blue envelope addressed to the Federal Prosecutor. Beside it lay the black leather journal and the digital voice recorder. I didn't have time to review the contents. I stuffed the envelope and the recorder inside my thick cotton nursing tote bag, hiding them beneath Theodore’s spare diapers and extra cans of infant formula.
I shoved the drawer shut, locked it, and dropped the key back under the silver sponge tray just as the heavy bedroom doors clicked open.
Dr. Wallace walked in.
He looked around fifty-five, with silver-streaked hair parted with mathematical precision, thin gold-rimmed wire spectacles, and an expression of cold, clinical detachment. He wore a crisp white medical coat under his dark wool overcoat.
He didn't greet me. He didn't even acknowledge Theodore, who was standing up in his crib, watching the stranger with quiet, wide eyes.
"Leave the room, Nora," Wallace said, unbuttoning his coat and laying his steel case flat on the glass tea table near the window.
"Is something wrong, Dr. Wallace?" I asked, staying by the bed, stepping slightly in front of the IV pole. "His schedule says his next medication isn't due until six in the morning."
Wallace paused, his gloved fingers resting on the latches of his case. He turned his head slowly, looking at me over the rim of his glasses.
"His heart rate monitor flagged a spike fifteen minutes ago at the central monitoring console downstairs," Wallace said smoothly. His voice was flat, dry, and entirely devoid of human warmth. "Mr. Christopher asked me to administer a sedative to ensure he doesn't suffer unnecessary distress."
"His pulse is fifty-four right now, Doctor," I pointed out, pointing at the green numbers bouncing across the monitor screen. "He's completely stable."
Wallace’s eyes narrowed into tiny, dangerous slits behind his lenses.
"I am the attending physician in this house, Ms. Vance," he said, his tone dropping into a icy, commanding register. "You are a temporary domestic employee hired to change bedsheets and wipe counters. You do not analyze vital signs, and you do not question my orders."
He snapped open the steel case.
Inside lay six small glass vials filled with a clear, odorless liquid, alongside three sterile heavy-gauge syringes.
My blood turned to fire.
He wasn't here to keep Raymond comfortable. Christopher was nervous. Victoria was in the house. The grand jury deadline was drawing near. They were ending it tonight. This was the final, fatal dose—the one that would stop Raymond’s lungs permanently, leaving behind a tissue profile that would be passed off as natural respiratory arrest due to his "condition."
"I need to prepare his chest for an intramuscular injection," Wallace said, picking up one of the vials and plunging the needle through the rubber stopper. "Take your child and wait in the hallway."
I didn't move.
"Nora," Wallace said, his voice tightening with an edge of dangerous impatience. "Did you hear me?"
"Doctor," I said, forcing my voice to sound high, panicked, and innocent. "I... I think there's something wrong with the IV line! Look at his hand!"
Wallace frowned, holding the filled syringe upward, tapping the side to dislodge air bubbles. "What are you talking about?"
"It's swelling! Look!"
Impatient, Wallace took three steps toward the bed, leaning over Raymond’s left arm to inspect the plastic tube taped to his wrist.
It was the only opening I had.
As Wallace bent down, his face inches from Raymond’s chest, I reached out with my left hand and bumped the heavy silver sponge tray on the nightstand with all my strength.
The heavy tray, three silver water pitchers, and two crystal glasses crashed onto the hardwood floor with a deafening, shattering BANG.
Glass sprayed everywhere. Water splashed over Wallace’s immaculate leather shoes.
"What the hell are you doing?!" Wallace yelled, jumping back, his hands flaring out in reflex.
In that half-second of chaotic distraction, Raymond did something extraordinary.
With a sudden, violent surge of raw willpower that seemed to tear through his paralyzed nervous system like a lightning bolt, Raymond raised his right hand three inches off the mattress. His fingers, stiff and pale, shot forward and clamped around the plastic tubing of his own IV line, yanking the steel needle completely out of his vein!
Blood sprayed across the white linen sheets.
"You clumsy fool!" Wallace roared, pointing at me, completely failing to realize that the needle hadn't slipped—it had been yanked out by the "paralyzed" man in the bed.
"I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry!" I cried out, throwing my hands over my mouth, backing away toward Theodore's crib. "I tripped over the rug! I'll get the mop!"
"Shut up!" Wallace hissed, grabbing a roll of medical tape from his pocket to stop the bleeding on Raymond’s wrist.
He looked down at Raymond’s face.
Raymond’s eyes were closed tight. His breath was shallow. He lay completely motionless once again, pretending to be as unconscious as a stone.
Wallace cursed under his breath, wiping a spot of blood from his cuff. He looked down at the syringe in his hand, then back at the shattered glass on the floor.
"Get out," Wallace ordered, his face dark with suppressed fury. "Get out of this room right now and don't come back in until I tell you."
"Yes, sir! Yes, doctor!" I stammered, pulling Theodore out of his crib and grabbing my thick nursing tote bag from the chair.
I didn't look back at Raymond. I couldn't. If I looked at him, Wallace would see the terror and determination written across my face.
I walked out into the long, dark, carpeted hallway, clutching my son against my shoulder, the thick blue envelope heavy against my hip inside my bag.
The hallway was quiet, lit only by low brass sconces that cast long, twisted shadows across the paneled walls.
I took three steps toward the grand staircase.
Then I heard a soft, cold voice come from the darkness near the top of the stairs.
"Where are you going with that heavy bag, Nora?"
May you like
I stopped.
Christopher Winslow stepped out from the shadows of the mezzanine, a dark gun—a small, silver automatic pistol—held loosely in his right hand, pointed straight at the floor.
