Chapter 4 - THE TRAP CLOSES
I didn't panic.
Years of conducting high-stakes site investigations under extreme pressure kicked in, turning my terror into cold, focused adrenaline.
I carefully slid the documents back into the Manila envelope, tied the string precisely as it had been, and placed it back behind the red divider in the file cabinet. I locked the drawer, wiped the metallic handle with my handkerchief to clear any stray thumbprints, and slipped out of the home office, locking the door behind me with my tension tool.
I hurried down the back staircase just as the heavy oak front door opened.
I met Cassandra in the formal living room.
She was carrying two luxury shopping bags from an upscale boutique, her keys jingling in her hand. When she saw me standing near the hallway, her steps faltered for a fraction of a second, her dark eyes narrowing with intense suspicion.
"Matthew?" she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "I thought you were in Dallas for an emergency board meeting."
"The meeting was rescheduled," I lied smoothly, forcing my face into a posture of tired, corporate frustration. "The regional director had a flight delay in Houston. I decided to turn around and come back to work from my home office."
Cassandra set her shopping bags down on the armchair, her eyes scanning my face, my suit jacket, and the hallway behind me.
"I see," she said slowly, stepping closer, her expensive rose perfume wrapping around me like a velvet shroud. "Did you check on your mother?"
"She's still asleep," I said, keeping my voice utterly devoid of emotion. "I didn't want to disturb her."
"Good," Cassandra murmured, reaching up to adjust my tie, her fingers lingering against my collarbone. "She needs her rest, Matthew. Dr. Sterling called while I was out. He wants to stop by this afternoon to review her medication levels. He thinks we may need to increase her dosage to keep her comfortable."
"Increase her dosage?" I repeated, fighting with every ounce of my willpower not to pull away from her touch. "She's already sleeping fourteen hours a day, Cassandra."
"It's for her own peace of mind, darling," Cassandra said softly, kissing my cheek with cold, painted lips. "She gets so agitated when she's awake. Trust Dr. Sterling. He's been managing her case for months."
He hasn't been managing her case, I thought bitterly. He's been poisoning her.
"Of course," I said aloud, forcing a faint, compliant smile. "Whatever the doctor thinks is best."
That afternoon, I began my counter-investigation.
While Cassandra was in the kitchen preparing an elaborate lunch, I slipped into my mother's bedroom, opened her nightstand drawer, and located the dark brown liquid medication bottle Dr. Sterling had provided. The label read: Compound Supplement - Administer 3 drops daily as directed by Dr. Sterling.
There was no official pharmacy brand, no generic chemical name, and no national drug code on the glass bottle.
I pulled a sterile plastic syringe from my travel kit, extracted a two-milliliter sample of the dark liquid from the bottle, and sealed it in a small glass vial I kept in my pocket.
At 2:00 p.m., Dr. Julian Sterling arrived at the house.
He was a tall, silver-haired man in his late fifties, dressed in an immaculate bespoke suit, carrying a leather medical bag. He moved through my house with the arrogant familiarity of someone who believed he was completely untouchable.
I greeted him in the foyer, watching his every move with hawk-like intensity.
"Matthew," Dr. Sterling said, shaking my hand with a firm, practiced grip. "Cassandra mentioned you were concerned about Eleanor's recent decline. I assure you, vascular dementia is unpredictable. Fluctuations in mood and behavior are entirely normal."
"Is it normal for her to have dark bruises on her wrists, Doctor?" I asked quietly, looking him straight in the eyes.
Dr. Sterling’s smile tightened slightly at the corners. "Senile purpura, Matthew. As the skin ages, capillaries break easily. A minor bump against a wheelchair footrest can cause dramatic bruising. Nothing to worry about."
"And the liquid compound?" I pressed. "What exactly is inside it?"
"A proprietary blend of low-dose neuroleptics and cognitive stabilizers," Dr. Sterling answered without missing a beat, his voice smooth as oil. "Formulated specifically for high-anxiety geriatric patients. I've seen remarkable results with it in my private practice."
I nodded, pretending to accept his explanation. "Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate your dedication to my mother."
While Dr. Sterling went into my mother's room with Cassandra, I walked out to my car, called an old university classmate who ran a accredited forensic toxicology laboratory in downtown Fort Worth, and arranged for an emergency rush analysis of the liquid sample in my pocket.
"I need a complete mass spectrometry screen, David," I told my friend over the encrypted phone line. "I need to know every single active chemical compound in this vial within twenty-four hours."
"I'll run it immediately, Matthew," David assured me. "What am I looking for?"
"I think someone is using it to simulate severe dementia and physical incapacitation," I said, my voice cold as ice.
That evening, as Cassandra sat across from me at the long mahogany dining table, sipping red wine and casually talking about table centerpieces for the charity gala, I received a text message on my phone.
It was from Sofia Reyes.
Mr. Vance. I am at the hotel. A man in a dark car has been parked across the street from my building for two hours. I think Mrs. Vance's private investigator followed me. Please help me.
I looked up from my phone screen.
Cassandra was watching me over the rim of her wine glass, her dark eyes gleaming with a quiet, terrifying triumph.
May you like
The trap was closing around us faster than I had anticipated.
And I had less than forty-eight hours before Cassandra realized I was hunting her.
