Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Machine
As the sun rose higher over Minneapolis,
the hospital became a hive of activity.
Charles stayed in the ICU,
using his authority to keep Warren at bay.
He knew that if Warren got close enough,
he might try to finish what he started.
A pharmacist in a hospital isn't a stranger;
he’s a ghost who knows where the medicine is kept.
While checking the monitors,
Charles noticed a strange fluctuation in Lillian’s heart rate.
She wasn't waking up,
but she was reacting to something.
He leaned down and whispered her name.
“Lillian,
it’s Charles.
You’re safe.”
Her eyelids flickered,
a tiny movement that sent a jolt of adrenaline through him.
He checked the toxicology report that had just arrived.
It wasn't just Dexopraline.
There were traces of a sedative,
something that would have made her drowsy,
perhaps even unconscious,
before the patch was applied.
She hadn't fought back because she couldn't.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and jumped.
It was Nurse Brenda.
“The husband is demanding to speak to the Board,” she whispered.
“He’s making a scene.
He says you’re kidnapping his wife.”
Charles straightened his lab coat.
“Let him talk to the Board.
I have the police on speed dial.”
He walked out to the waiting area.
Warren was there,
surrounded by two hospital administrators.
He looked frantic,
the perfect image of a man losing his mind with grief.
“Charles!
What is the meaning of this?
Why am I being barred from my wife’s side?”
The administrators looked uncomfortable.
Charles didn’t blink.
“Lillian is in a highly sensitive state,
Warren.
Standard protocol for suspected poisoning cases.”
The word ‘poisoning’ hung in the air like a guillotine blade.
Warren’s expression didn't change,
but his eyes darkened.
“Poisoning?
What are you talking about?
She had an allergic reaction.”
“To a drug she’s been avoiding for twenty years?”
Charles stepped closer,
lowering his voice so the administrators couldn't hear.
“I found the patch,
Warren.
I found the Dexopraline.”
For a split second,
the mask slipped.
A flash of pure,
cold calculation crossed Warren’s face.
Then it was gone,
replaced by a look of bewildered hurt.
“I don't know what you’re talking about.
I want to see her.”
“You’ll see her when the police are finished with her room,”
Charles said firmly.
Warren backed away,
his hands balled into fists.
“You’re making a mistake,
Charles.
A forty-year mistake.”
“I’m not the one who made the mistake,”
Charles replied.
As Warren turned to leave,
his phone rang.
He looked at the screen,
and Charles caught a glimpse of the caller ID.
It wasn't a name.
May you like
It was just an initial.
‘E’.
