Chapter 3 - The First Fracture
The sirens cut through our gated neighborhood within eight minutes, their red and blue strobes painting the pristine white walls of our dining room in warning colors.
Paramedics burst through the front door first, guided by the open door I had left unlatched. Two uniformed officers followed, their hands resting on their holstered sidearms. Behind them walked Detective Marcus Miller, a weathered man in a rumpled charcoal trench coat, holding a thermos of black coffee.
"Step back, everyone," Miller announced, taking in the room in a single, practiced glance.
"Help her!" Daniel shouted, lunging toward the paramedics as they knelt beside Vanessa. "My wife attacked her! She forced her to drink broken glass and wine!"
Miller looked at Daniel, then shifted his gaze to me.
"Detective," I said, pointing with a gloved finger. "The suspect, Vanessa Thorne, introduced a white powdery substance from that plastic pouch into my wine glass. The silver spoon on the napkin was used as an agitator. When caught, she attempted to compel me to ingest it. In the ensuing struggle, she consumed a minimal volume before dropping the glass. The residue on the spoon and the table remains uncontaminated."
Daniel’s jaw dropped. "She’s lying! She grabbed Vanessa by the hair! It’s on the floor—look at her!"
Miller didn't blink. "Officer Vance, separate Mr. Holloway and take his statement in the study. Don't let him touch his phone."
"You can't do that!" Daniel yelled as a burly officer gripped his arm. "This is my house!"
"Actually, Daniel," I said, pulling off my gloves carefully from the cuffs, turning them inside out, "the deed is in my maiden name, purchased through my maternal trust before we married. You are a guest in this house. And right now, you are a person of interest."
As Daniel was dragged toward the study, sputtering threats of lawsuits and ruined careers, the paramedics wheeled Vanessa out on a stretcher. An oxygen mask was strapped to her face, her eyes rolling back into her skull.
Miller bent down, examining the table. He took out an evidence bag, carefully sliding the silver spoon and the tiny packet inside.
"What do you think it is, Claire?" he asked quietly.
"High-potency scopolamine or a concentrated benzodiazepine cocktail," I answered, crossing my arms. "She wanted me incapacitated. Or dead before morning."
Miller looked up, his brow furrowing. "Why would your husband’s assistant want you dead?"
May you like
"Because three days ago," I whispered, "Daniel signed an amended life insurance policy naming Vanessa’s shell company as the irrevocable secondary beneficiary in the event of my accidental demise."
---
