Chapter 2 - Poison in the Teacup
A cold shiver ran straight down my spine as I leaned against the locked door of Garrett’s suite. The air in the room felt heavy, almost suffocating.
"Poisoning your medication?" I repeated, keeping my voice down to a strict whisper. "Mr. Corbin, that is a severe allegation. If you know this, why haven't you called the police?"
Garrett let his right leg lower back to the footrest, his jaw tight. "Because the chief of police in this district sits on my company's board of directors, and my brother, Douglas, happens to manage his political campaign fund. If I make a public accusation without undeniable physical evidence, Douglas will use my 'neurological trauma' to have me declared mentally incompetent and stripped of my voting proxy at Corbin Medical."
He reached into his bathrobe pocket and pulled out a tiny, amber glass vial filled with a clear liquid.
"For the past month," Garrett explained, "every evening at eight o'clock, my sister-in-law, Gertrude, personally brings a pot of chamomile tea to my suite. She insists it helps my circulation. Two weeks ago, I noticed a strange, metallic film sitting on top of the liquid. I pretended to drink it, dumped it down the bathroom sink when she left, and had a trusted private lab analyze a hidden sample."
"What did the lab find?" I asked, stepping closer to his chair.
"Heavy doses of a synthetic neuromuscular blocker," Garrett said, his eyes burning with fury. "It’s a compound manufactured primarily by biomedical firms. It directly inhibits synaptic signals to the lower extremities. It doesn't kill you—it simply ensures that your nerves remain completely paralyzed. They aren't trying to murder me, Rebecca. They are keeping me crippled long enough to force a shareholder vote that transfers my controlling stock to Douglas."
The piece of the puzzle clicked together instantly in my mind. The way Douglas hovered over Garrett's desk. The way Gertrude monitored the household staff. They weren't caring relatives; they were jailers guarding a gold mine.
"Why are you telling me this?" I asked softly. "I just arrived today. You don't know me."
Garrett looked up, staring into my eyes with an intensity that made my breath catch. "I spent three days running an extensive background check on you before I agreed to hire you, Rebecca. I know about your father’s stroke. I know you spent four years selflessly caring for him. I know your husband cheated on you with a coworker and kicked you to the curb after twelve years of marriage."
I winced slightly at the blunt summary of my pain, but Garrett continued.
"You know what it means to be betrayed by the people who promised to love you," Garrett said softly. "You know what it feels like to be tossed aside when you're no longer convenient. I don't need a medical assistant who pity-smiles at me. I need an ally who knows how to keep her mouth shut and follow nursing protocols. I am paying you thirty-five thousand dollars a month not just to wash my legs, Rebecca—I am paying you to help me take my life back."
Before I could answer, three sharp knocks echoed against the heavy oak door.
"Garrett?" Gertrude’s high-pitched, sickly sweet voice called out from the hallway. "Garrett, darling? Is everything alright in there? Why is the door locked?"
Garrett immediately dropped his head back, relaxing his facial muscles into a mask of weak, exhausted vulnerability. He gestured frantically toward the lock.
I took a deep breath, composed my face, and unlocked the door, swinging it open just a few inches.
Gertrude stood in the hallway, wearing an expensive silk wrap dress, holding a silver tray. On the tray sat a porcelain teapot and a single cup. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously as she looked past me toward Garrett, who was slumped in his wheelchair.
"Why was the door locked, nurse?" Gertrude demanded, her voice sharp as glass.
"Mr. Corbin experienced a mild muscle spasm during his bath, Mrs. Corbin," I lied smoothly, keeping my tone professional and unbothered. "He felt self-conscious, so I locked the door to ensure his privacy while I helped him dry off and dress. It’s standard patient protocol."
Gertrude stared at me for three agonizing seconds, searching my face for any sign of deceit. I held her gaze without flinching.
Finally, her face softened into a fake, polished smile. "I see. Well, I brought Garrett his evening tea. I'll take over from here."
"Actually," Garrett spoke up from his chair, his voice raspy and weak, "Rebecca was just about to help me transfer to the bed. Leave the tray on the nightstand, Gertrude. I'm quite tired."
Gertrude walked into the room, setting the silver tray down on the marble nightstand beside the bed. She bent down, kissed Garrett’s cheek with cold affection, and patted his shoulder. "Get some sleep, darling. Douglas and I are hosting an informal dinner with the board members tomorrow night. You'll need your rest."
As soon as Gertrude pulled the door shut behind her, Garrett turned his head toward the nightstand.
I walked over to the silver tray, picked up the porcelain teapot, and smelled the steam rising from the spout. There it was—a faint, bitter, metallic scent buried beneath the fragrant chamomile.
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I looked at Garrett. "What do we do with it?"
"We empty it into a sterile specimen container," Garrett said, opening a drawer in his vanity to reveal several medical collection tubes. "And tomorrow night, at that board dinner... we give my family a taste of their own medicine."
