Chapter 3 - The Orange Vial
The rain on that Tuesday night felt like lead shot hitting the glass.
Dominic was alone in his office, reviewing offshore accounts that funded his legitimate construction fronts, when the secondary monitor in the corner pinged softly.
He looked up.
Maeve had just locked the bedroom door from the inside.
Dominic’s hand shot out instinctively, his fingers wrapping around the grip of the Glock mounted beneath the desk. He leaned closer to the screen, his breathing shallow. She locked the door. Against his direct, explicit orders.
On the screen, Maeve moved with brisk, urgent efficiency. She crossed to the small silver serving tray resting on the bureau—a tray that had been brought up twenty minutes earlier by Elena Vance, Dominic’s fiancée.
Elena had spent the last eight months gliding through the Kane estate like a ghost in expensive silk, bringing comfort, casseroles, and sympathy after Claire’s death. She was the daughter of Superior Court Judge Harrison Vance, educated in Geneva, poised, beautiful, and unfailingly polite. She was scheduled to move into the master suite next month.
On the monitor, Maeve reached into the deep pocket of her gray apron and pulled out a small, pre-loaded medical syringe and a glass vial containing a clear reagent.
Dominic’s heart slammed against his ribs. She’s poisoning him.
The thought detonated in his mind with the force of a bomb. He reached for his phone to call Dante, his finger trembling over the speed-dial button.
Then he stopped.
Maeve didn't approach the bed. She didn't inject anything into Eli’s IV line or his water pitcher. Instead, she took the small silver bowl containing the remaining orange butternut squash soup Elena had personally spoon-fed Eli earlier that evening.
Using the syringe, Maeve drew a tiny quantity of the orange soup from the bowl.
She transferred three drops into the glass vial, added two drops of the clear reagent, and stoppered the vial with her thumb. She shook it once, twice, with clinical precision.
Under the amber glow of the bedside lamp, the bright orange liquid curdled instantly, turning a deep, toxic black.
Maeve stared at the dark reaction in the glass. Her mouth tightened into a hard, bloodless line. She lifted her face toward the ceiling—not in prayer, but in a surge of silent, white-hot fury.
Then she turned, walked to the bed, and knelt beside Eli.
“I know, Eli,” she whispered, her voice carrying clearly through the hyper-sensitive mic in the stuffed bear. “I know she’s doing it. They won’t get away with this.”
Dominic sat frozen in his leather chair. The pistol slipped from his fingers, clattering softly against the mahogany desk.
May you like
The soup. The soup Elena had brought with her own hands, smiling, wiping Eli’s chin, telling Dominic how much she loved caring for his son.
Elena wasn't comforting them. She was finishing what the car crash had started.
