Chapter 4 - A Friend in White Gloves
Martha did not move. Her chest heaved, her expensive face creams melting under the heat of pure, unfiltered panic. She was a woman accustomed to controlling boardrooms, country clubs, and her spineless husband. She had never once looked into the eyes of someone who held the match to her entire life.
"You're bluffing," Martha hissed, her voice vibrating with malice. "You don't have anything. If you knew, you would have made a scene out there. You're a coward from a working-class gutter, Caroline. You wouldn't risk Patrick's name."
"Try me," I said softly.
Rebecca was still weeping on the floor, ignoring the drops of perfume soaking into the hem of her four-thousand-dollar gown. "Mom, please. Stop it. Look at her. She knows."
"Get up, you pathetic girl!" Martha snapped, not taking her eyes off me. "Clean your face. If you walk out of this room looking like a victim, every camera in the state will have questions."
I turned my back on them and walked out of the suite. In matters of psychological warfare, the person who leaves the room first always retains the upper hand.
I didn't return to the ballroom immediately. Instead, I took the service stairs down to the basement prep kitchen, where the roar of industrial dishwashers and the clatter of stainless steel drowned out the muted brass of the wedding band upstairs.
Michael was waiting by the dry storage entrance, still wearing his black banquet apron. When he saw me round the corner, he pushed off the wall and guided me into an alcove stacked with crates of sparkling water.
"Caroline," Michael said, keeping his voice beneath the rumble of the exhaust fans. "Tell me Patrick didn't drink it."
"He didn't drink the aconite, Michael. You swapped it in time," I said, pulling the vial from my purse and holding it up to the fluorescent light. The liquid inside was a rich, deceptive burgundy. "Patrick drank the clean pinot noir you brought from the sideboard."
Michael let out a long, ragged exhale, running a hand through his cropped hair. "Jesus Christ. When Martha screamed out there, I thought... I thought I somehow grabbed the wrong glass. I was ready to call the paramedics."
"She screamed because she thought her own plan had worked—on her son."
Michael stared at the vial in my hand, his expression hardening. "Aconite? You're sure?"
"She named it herself in the bridal suite not two minutes ago. She bought it. She had Rebecca drop it in my glass."
Michael swore under his breath. "That's attempted first-degree murder, Caroline. We need to walk this straight out to the police cruiser parked at the front entrance."
"No," I said, placing my hand over his wrist. "Not yet."
"Are you insane? They tried to kill you!"
"And who do you think the local police believe first, Michael? Martha Vance, whose family name is etched on the children’s wing of the hospital and who donates half a million dollars to the mayor's reelection campaign? Or me—a girl from an upstate public school with zero pedigree, backed by a banquet waiter who used to be Patrick’s college roommate?"
Michael paused, the bitter reality of the world settling into his shoulders. "They'd claim you planted it. They'd say you were trying to extort the family."
"Exactly," I said. "A vial in my purse proves nothing except that I have a vial in my purse. I need the chain of custody. I need the bottle Rebecca used to pour the powder, and I need the source of where Martha purchased it. You work in the hospital's toxicology department for your residency, right?"
"Lab tech rotation ends next month, yeah. I have keycard access to the chromatography equipment."
"Can you run a formal screen on this without raising flags?"
"I can do a preliminary test tonight on the night shift," Michael nodded grimly, taking the vial carefully with gloved fingers and slipping it into an insulated specimen pouch inside his jacket. "It'll show the exact chemical signature. If it's pure monkshood extract, it's not something you buy at a pharmacy. It has to come from a specialized botanical supplier or the dark web."
"Find out what's in it," I said. "And Michael?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't let any Vance family members leave this venue until I tell you."
May you like
Michael gave me a tight, resolute nod. "Patrick is my brother, Caroline. He was blind to what his mother was, but he doesn't deserve this. I'll make sure the kitchen staff keeps an eye on the exits."
***
