“Drink up, Ethan. I made it just for you.”

By noon the following day, Melissa was out of police custody. As Sarah predicted, her high-powered attorney, Arthur Sterling, had arrived at the precinct with a writ of habeas corpus, arguing that Melissa was being unlawfully detained while her husband was in critical care.

She had given no statements. She had handed over no passwords.

I stood outside the glass wall of the ICU step-down unit at Mercy General. Grant had been extubated two hours earlier. He looked like an empty shell—skin gray and paper-thin, dark bruises encircling his wrists where IV lines had blown out, an oxygen cannula hissing quietly beneath his nostrils.

Detective Vance stood beside me, sipping black coffee from a styrofoam cup.

“He’s awake,” Vance said. “The attending physician cleared us for a ten-minute interview. But he’s terrified, Luke. When he woke up and saw Melissa in the room, his heart monitor alarmed so hard the nurses had to physically escort her out of the ward.”

“Can I go in with you?” I asked.

Vance hesitated. “You’re not law enforcement, Mercer.”

“I’m the guy who saved his life by switching the cups,” I said. “And I’m the brother of the woman his wife might have killed. Let me talk to him.”

Vance stared at me for a long moment, then reached out and pushed the door open. “Ten minutes. If his vitals spike, we’re out.”

The room smelled of iodine and stale sweat. When Grant heard our footsteps, his head snapped toward us. His bloodshot eyes went wide with pure, naked panic.

“Luke...” his voice was a ragged scrape, like dry leaves across asphalt. “Luke, please...”

I pulled a vinyl chair up directly beside his bed and sat down. “Relax, Grant. I’m not here to yell at you. I need to know what you remember from yesterday morning.”

Grant swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing against his gaunt neck. A single tear tracked down his stubbled cheek. “The... the cooler. In the garage.”

“What about the cooler?” Vance asked, clicking a ballpoint pen and opening a pocket notebook.

“Melissa was... she was mixing drinks in the stainless steel thermoses,” Grant whispered, his breathing shallow. “I came out to grab the ice bags. She jumped. Dropped a little amber glass bottle. It had a dropper top. I asked her what it was... she said it was CBD oil for her migraines.”

“Did you see her put it in the pink lemonade?” Vance pressed.

Grant closed his eyes tightly. “She told me that thermos was special for Ethan. Said he had been acting out, having panic attacks about Rachel... said the CBD would calm his nerves during the party so he wouldn't embarrass Luke.”

A cold, murderous fury flared behind my eyes, but I kept my voice steady. “And what happened when we got to my house, Grant?”

“I... I was thirsty from carrying the folding tables,” Grant choked out, his chest hitching. “I saw the two pink glasses on the counter. I thought Melissa poured one for me and one for Ethan. I picked up the one closer to the sink and sat on the couch. Then... then you tied Ethan’s shoe.”

Grant looked directly at me, his eyes swimming with horrific realization.

“You switched them,” Grant whispered. “You knew.”

“I didn't know what was in it,” I said honestly. “I just knew the way she looked at my son wasn't love. It was predatory. If I hadn't moved that glass, Ethan would be in the morgue right now, Grant. And Melissa would be consoling me while filing for his trust fund.”

Grant let out a broken, shuddering sob, burying his face in his trembling hands. “Oh God... Rachel. Dear God, Rachel.”

Detective Vance stepped forward instantly. “What about Rachel, Mr. Vance? What do you know about Rachel’s death?”

Grant’s hands shook violently against his hospital gown. “Fourteen months ago... the night before Rachel died. Melissa came home late. She was shaking. She had Rachel’s spare house key. She went down to the basement where we keep the old veterinary supplies from my father’s farm. My dad... he was a large-animal vet. He had expired medications stored in a locked steel footlocker.”

“What kind of medications?” Vance demanded, his pen flying across the pad.

“Succinylcholine,” Grant sobbed. “And concentrated organophosphate drench for cattle parasites. It suppresses cardiac rhythm without leaving typical chemical markers unless you run a specialized mass spectrometry panel. Melissa told me she was just throwing out old expired bottles so we wouldn't get fined. I believed her! I swear to God, Luke, I didn't know she was going to use it!”

“Where is the footlocker now, Grant?” I asked, leaning in close, my heart pounding like a war drum. “Where did she put the rest of the supply?”

Grant looked at me, his eyes wide with desperate guilt. “Under the floorboards in our tool shed. Behind the riding mower. There’s a loose plank. She keeps the keys to the lockbox taped under the workbench drawer.”

Detective Vance snapped his notebook shut. He turned to me, his jaw set in stone.