Chapter 6 - The Beneficiary’s Burden
The document sat on the mahogany desk in the police station,
its edges crisp,
and its implications devastating.
Charles stared at the figure,
ten million dollars,
printed in bold,
unambiguous black ink.
His name,
Charles Edward Fletcher,
was listed as the sole beneficiary of Warren Prescott’s life insurance policy.
Detective Morales sat across from him,
her eyes unblinking,
her coffee steam rising in a thin,
wavering line.
“Why you,
Charles?”
she asked,
her voice dropping to a low,
dangerous register.
“A man doesn't leave ten million dollars to his best friend,
while trying to kill his wife,
unless there is a reason.”
Charles felt the air in the room grow thin,
like he was standing on the peak of a mountain with no oxygen.
“I don’t know,”
he whispered,
his voice cracking,
as he thought back to every conversation they had ever had.
Did Warren owe him something?
Was it a gift?
Or was it the ultimate frame-up?
“If Warren dies,
you become a very wealthy man,”
Morales continued,
leaning forward,
her pen tapping a rhythmic,
annoying beat on the table.
“And if Lillian dies first,
all her assets go to Warren,
which then,
eventually,
could come to you.”
Charles stood up abruptly,
his chair scraping against the floor with a harsh,
metallic screech.
“Are you suggesting I was part of this?”
he demanded,
his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
“I’m the one who saved her!”
“I’m suggesting that Warren Prescott is a master of chemistry,
and perhaps,
a master of manipulation,”
Teresa replied,
calmly.
She stood up too,
walking around the desk until she was inches away from him.
“He knew you would find that patch,
Charles.
He knew you were the only surgeon on call.
He knew you better than anyone.”
The realization hit Charles like a physical blow to the stomach.
If Warren had wanted her dead,
really dead,
he could have used something undetectable.
He could have used a potassium overdose,
or a subtle insulin spike.
But he used a patch,
a physical,
visible piece of evidence,
placed exactly where Charles would find it.
It wasn't a murder attempt,
Charles realized with a shudder.
It was a performance.
But for whom?
And why involve ten million dollars?
He walked out of the station,
the cold Minneapolis air biting at his skin,
feeling the weight of the money like a shroud.
He looked at his hands,
the hands of a surgeon,
and wondered if they were already stained with a blood he hadn't spilled.
Every light he passed,
every shadow in the alleyway,
seemed to whisper Warren’s name.
He drove back to the hospital,
not to check on his patient,
but to find the truth hidden in the records.
Because if Warren was playing a game,
Charles was no longer just a spectator.
May you like
He was a pawn,
and the board was beginning to burn.
