Chapter 2 - The Pills He Never Asked For
The next morning, Vivienne had already arranged Marcus’s medications before I arrived.
Three pills sat inside a porcelain dish.
White.
Blue.
Small yellow tablet.
I checked the medication administration record.
Sertraline.
Clonazepam.
Zolpidem.
I frowned.
“It’s nine in the morning.”
Vivienne was pouring coffee.
“Yes?”
“Why is zolpidem here?”
“For sleep.”
“At nine in the morning?”
She looked at the tray.
Arthur entered behind me.
“That must be an error.”
Vivienne smiled.
“Obviously.”
Marcus watched us from the breakfast table.
I picked up the yellow tablet.
“Who prepared these?”
“The house staff,” Vivienne said.
“Which staff member?”
Her smile tightened.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
Arthur cleared his throat.
“I’ll find out.”
“No.”
Vivienne’s voice sharpened.
“I’ll handle it.”
Marcus knocked his knuckles twice against the table.
I turned.
“Is something wrong?”
One blink.
I took out my notepad.
Vivienne stared at it.
“You intend to carry that everywhere?”
“Yes.”
I wrote:
HAS THIS HAPPENED BEFORE?
Marcus blinked once.
My stomach tightened.
“How often?”
That required more than yes or no.
I held up fingers.
“One day a week?”
Two blinks.
“Three?”
Two.
“Every day?”
One.
Vivienne set her coffee down.
“You cannot seriously believe he knows what medication is in front of him.”
Marcus reached across the table.
He picked up the yellow tablet.
Then dropped it into her coffee.
Arthur made a choking sound.
I almost laughed.
Vivienne did not.
She pushed the cup away.
“That is exactly the kind of impulsive behavior I warned you about.”
Marcus stared at her.
I took the tablet away.
“I’m withholding anything not consistent with the chart.”
“You don’t have authority to alter his treatment.”
“I have authority not to give a daytime sedative when the order says bedtime.”
Vivienne stepped closer.
“I hired your agency.”
“And my license belongs to me.”
Her expression changed.
Marcus tapped the table once.
Then pointed toward me.
I wrote:
DO YOU WANT ME TO STAY?
One blink.
Vivienne turned away.
“Fine.”
That afternoon, I reviewed his records.
Something did not fit.
Marcus had been examined repeatedly for neurological damage.
Nothing significant.
His vocal cords had been structurally intact on the most recent report.
His comprehension testing was inconsistent.
But inconsistent did not mean absent.
Most strange of all, the notes repeatedly mentioned fatigue.
Sedation.
Delayed reactions.
Memory problems.
The symptoms had worsened after he returned home from a private rehabilitation clinic eighteen months earlier.
I found Arthur in the pantry.
“Who manages his prescriptions?”
He kept stacking glasses.
“Mrs. Vale.”
“Which doctor?”
“Several.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
Arthur finally looked at me.
“You want my advice?”
“Yes.”
“Do your nursing. Collect your paycheck. Go home.”
“That advice worked for fourteen nurses?”
His expression tightened.
“They went home alive.”
I stared at him.
“Was that supposed to scare me?”
“It was supposed to help you.”
“Then tell me what happened.”
Arthur looked toward the door.
“Marcus was attacked two years ago.”
I knew the public version.
A vehicle accident near a Vale warehouse.
Head injury.
Weeks in the hospital.
“Was he talking after the accident?”
Arthur didn’t answer.
“That’s important.”
“He spoke for several days.”
My pulse quickened.
“What happened?”
“He came home.”
“And then?”
Arthur lowered his voice.
“Then he stopped.”
That evening, I found Marcus alone in the library.
I closed the door.
“I need to ask you something.”
He looked at me.
“Did you lose your voice immediately after the accident?”
Two blinks.
“No.”
I wrote the options.
DAYS?
WEEKS?
MONTHS?
Marcus pointed to DAYS.
“How many?”
He held up four fingers.
Four days.
“You were speaking for four days after the accident?”
One blink.
I turned the page.
“Then something changed.”
One blink.
“What?”
He looked toward the hallway.
Then pointed to the glass of water on the table.
I stared at it.
“Something you drank?”
One blink.
“Medication?”
One blink.
My throat went dry.
“Did someone give you something?”
One blink.
“Vivienne?”
Marcus did not blink.
He just looked at me.
Then he reached for the pen.
Slowly, painfully, he wrote three letters.
VIV
A floorboard creaked outside.
I closed the notebook.
The door opened.
Vivienne stood there.
“What are you discussing?”
“Blood pressure.”
She looked at Marcus.
Then at me.
“He doesn’t need privacy from his wife.”
I smiled politely.
“Patients need privacy from everyone.”
Her eyes chilled.
She stepped inside.
“You’re very confident for someone who has been here two days.”
“And you’re very nervous for someone with nothing to hide.”
Arthur appeared behind her.
“Hannah.”
A warning.
Vivienne stared at me.
“Be careful.”
Marcus stood.
It was the first time I had seen him do it.
He was taller than I expected.
Six foot three, maybe more.
Vivienne stopped speaking.
Marcus walked between us.
Then he stood beside me.
No words.
No threat.
He didn’t need one.
Vivienne slowly backed away.
That night, before I left, Marcus slipped something into the pocket of my scrub jacket.
I waited until I was inside my car to look.
It was a torn piece of pharmacy packaging.
A dispensing label.
The patient name had been ripped away.
The medication name remained.
Scopolamine transdermal system.
I stared at it.
That drug had legitimate uses.
Motion sickness.
Postoperative nausea.
But chronic or excessive exposure could cause confusion, sedation, memory problems.
And in the wrong combination?
Much worse.
I turned the package over.
Marcus had written one word on the back.
SAFE?
I looked up at the mansion.
Through the second-floor window, someone was watching me.
Vivienne.
I put the label in my purse.
“No,” I whispered.
May you like
“You’re not safe at all.”
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