Chapter 6 - The Poisoned Well
Three days passed in a state of uneasy, suffocating quiet.
The snowstorm cleared, leaving Chicago locked in an iron grip of sub-zero temperatures. Hannah spent her days inside Eleanor’s suite, adjusting medications, monitoring blood pressure, and meticulously documenting every detail of the old woman’s condition in a small black notebook she kept hidden beneath her mattress.
Eleanor was improving.
The fluid buildup in her lungs had cleared significantly; her cheeks, once hollow and gray, had regained a faint tinge of color. She was able to walk across the conservatory without leaning on Walter’s arm.
At seven in the evening, Hannah stood near the small sink in the second-floor medical pantry, washing a set of glass syringes in distilled water.
The door behind her opened silently.
Hannah didn't turn around immediately. “Your mother’s evening dose is ready, Dominic. I lowered the nitrate concentration by five milligrams.”
“I’m not Dominic,” a voice sneered.
Hannah spun around, her hand reaching instinctively for a heavy glass beaker on the counter.
Standing in the doorway was Walter Bell.
The sixty-eight-year-old steward, who had served the Moretti family for thirty years, looked entirely different tonight. His usual stooped, polite posture was gone; his eyes were cold, sharp, and focused entirely on the small black notebook sitting on the counter behind her.
“Walter?” Hannah whispered, her brow furrowing.
“You shouldn't have come here, Dr. Reed,” Walter said quietly, pulling a small silver revolver from his waistcoat pocket—a gun equipped with a long, heavy suppressor.
Hannah’s heart slammed against her ribs. “What are you doing?”
“I’ve served this family since Dominic was a boy,” Walter said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. “I watched his father build this empire out of blood and iron. And now, Dominic is ready to burn it all down for a girl he found in a staffing database.”
“Walter, put the gun down—”
“Vanessa’s father offered me two million dollars,” Walter interrupted calmly. “Two million dollars to make sure a certain fugitive doctor was delivered to Marcus Vance tonight. With you gone, the rail merger goes through, Dominic marries Vanessa, and the Moretti family stays strong.”
Hannah took a slow, calculated step backward, her spine pressing against the cold stainless steel sink. Her eyes flicked to the shelf above Walter’s head—a shelf containing four bottles of industrial-strength concentrated ammonia.
“Dominic will kill you,” Hannah said softly, keeping her voice steady to mask the surge of adrenaline flooding her system.
“Dominic will think Marcus Vance broke into the house while he was at the docks,” Walter replied. “He’ll mourn you for a week, and then he’ll move on. Men like Dominic always move on.”
Walter raised the suppressor, aligning the sights with Hannah’s forehead.
In that fraction of a second, Hannah didn't think like a maid or a victim. She thought like a trauma surgeon who understood human anatomy under extreme stress.
She didn't reach for the ammonia.
Instead, she grabbed the heavy glass beaker of boiling distilled water sitting on the hot plate beside her and threw it directly into Walter’s face.
The boiling water struck his eyes and nose.
Walter let out a muffled, agonizing shriek, his finger squeezing the trigger instinctively. The silenced gun produced a dull thump, the bullet shattering a glass cabinet six inches from Hannah’s ear.
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Before Walter could recover his sight, Hannah lunged forward, her fingers striking his right hand in a sharp, precise nerve press at the base of his thumb. His hand buckled, dropping the revolver onto the tile floor.
Hannah didn't try to pick up the gun. She kicked it under the low cabinet, shoved Walter’s staggering body into the glass shelves, and sprinted out of the pantry into the dark, silent corridor of the second floor.
