Chapter 5 - A Nest of Scorpions
By Wednesday afternoon, the news of my "sudden illness" had been carefully leaked through internal corporate channels at Vance Construction.
Our chief administrative officer, a loyal friend of my father’s named Robert Hayes, sent an urgent, encrypted email to all senior executives, stating that Adrianna Solomon had been admitted to a private home-care setup under the supervision of a private physician due to acute cardiac distress.
At 2:00 PM, my private line rang again.
It was Maggie Solomon.
I answered, letting out a weak, agonizing cough into the receiver before speaking. "Maggie?"
"Adrianna! Oh my good lord, sweetheart!" Maggie’s dramatic, overly theatrical voice screeched through the speaker. "David just told me what Robert said in the email! Why didn't you call us right away?! We’re packing our bags at the lake right now!"
"No... no, Maggie, please," I rasped, breathing heavily into the phone as I sat comfortably in my armchair, sipping cold lemon water. "Don't ruin your trip. The doctor... the doctor said I just need rest. It’s my heart. It feels... so faint."
"Oh, you poor dear," Maggie purred, though I could hear the cold, calculating excitement vibrating behind her words. "David is beside himself with worry! He’s insisting we drive back tonight. He says he needs to be by your side to make sure you’re taking your medicine!"
"He's... he's so good to me," I moaned softly, rolling my eyes at the ceiling.
"He certainly is, daughter," Maggie said, her voice dropping into a low, predatory purr. "Now, did you remember to take the second capsule tonight?"
"I... I took it with my tea an hour ago," I lied. "I’m so dizzy, Maggie. I can barely hold the phone."
"Just lie back, sweetheart," Maggie instructed, her tone turning eerily soothing. "Don't fight the sleep. Just let yourself slip away into rest. David will be home very soon to take care of everything. Everything is going to be just fine."
"Thank you... Maggie..." I whispered, then let my arm drop, allowing the phone to clatter onto the wooden floorboards to simulate me losing consciousness.
On the floor, the phone speaker picked up Maggie’s voice one last time before she disconnected: David! Get the car keys! She’s on the second dose! We need to be there before she stops breathing!
I picked up the phone, wiped the screen, and looked across the room at Dr. Croft and Julian.
"They fall for it every time," Dr. Croft said, checking his watch. "Pinecrest Lake is a three-hour drive from Maplewood Grove under normal conditions. With the rain starting outside, they’ll be here by six o'clock."
"Is the house prepped?" I asked Julian.
Julian stood up, pulling a high-definition tablet from his leather bag. The screen displayed nine camera angles covering every single square foot of the Maplewood estate: the front foyer, the grand staircase, the main living room, my father's study, and the master bedroom upstairs.
In the master bedroom, high-definition infrared cameras were hidden inside the smoke detectors, the bedside lamps, and the frame of the oil painting hanging above the fireplace.
"Every video feed is being broadcast live to a secure server at the State Police Special Investigations Bureau in Westchester," Julian reported. "Detective Sergeant Marcus Vance—no relation, again—is currently parked in an unmarked van two miles down the road with four tactical units."
"Good," I said, standing up and pulling off my comfortable sweater.
I walked to the closet and pulled out a faded silk nightgown—the kind of garment an invalid woman would wear while confined to bed. I sat down at the vanity, applying a heavier layer of pale makeup, darkening the circles under my eyes with a subtle touch of purple eyeshadow.
When I finished, I looked like a woman forty-eight hours away from the grave.
"Adrianna," Julian said softly, stepping up to the doorway of the bedroom. "You don't have to be in the bed when they arrive. We can have a dummy under the sheets and trap them the moment they step into the house."
"No," I said, sitting down on the edge of the large king-sized mattress—the bed where David had held me, lied to me, and planned my murder for three years. "David is cautious, Julian. If he senses anything wrong, if he doesn't see my breathing, he won't touch the evidence. He won't speak. I need him to stand right beside this bed, look me in the eye, and confess every single thing he did to my father."
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"It's dangerous," Julian warned.
"He thinks I'm a dying woman who can't lift her own arm," I said, pulling the heavy down comforter up to my chest. "He thinks he’s coming home to collect a corpse. He has no idea he's stepping into his own execution."
