Chapter 9 - Poison in the Nursery
Returning to Aldercrest Lane that evening was the most terrifying act of my life.
I had driven the Mustang back, parking it precisely where it had been, and slipped into the house through the basement entrance while Vivienne was hosting an afternoon tea with the local historical society. When Bennett returned from work, he found me sitting quietly in the nursery, rocking Miles with my good arm.
"Where were you this morning?" Bennett demanded, standing in the doorway, his eyes narrowed with razor-sharp suspicion. "The garage was empty."
"I took Miles for a walk in the carriage house," I said softly, keeping my head down, letting my voice shake with believable exhaustion. "I had a panic attack, Bennett. I thought... I thought someone was trying to hurt me. Dr. Keene said head injuries can cause paranoia."
Bennett exhaled a long, relieved breath. He walked over, placing a hand on my head like an owner petting an obedient dog. "I told you. You’re overtired, darling. Tomorrow night is the gala. Mother and I need you downstairs for the opening toast. Just thirty minutes, to show the board that we are unified. Then you can come back up to bed."
"Of course," I whispered. "Whatever you need."
That night, the nursery was deathly cold.
At midnight, I pretended to be asleep in the armchair beside the crib. A small, hidden button camera pinned to Miles’s mobile blinked silently in the dark, transmitting directly to Audrey’s laptop in Lancaster.
The door handle turned without a sound.
Vivienne entered, wearing a silk dressing gown. She didn't look at me; she assumed the heavy sedatives Bennett thought he had slipped into my water bottle had done their job.
She walked over to the baby’s feeding station on the dresser. I watched through narrowed eyelashes as she pulled a small amber dropper bottle from her pocket. She unscrewed the cap of Miles’s prepared bottle of pumped milk and let three distinct drops of clear liquid fall inside.
It was digitalis—foxglove extract from her conservatory gardens. In small doses, it induced pediatric arrhythmia, masquerading as sudden heart failure.
She shook the bottle gently, placed it back on the warmer, and glided out of the room like a ghost.
My entire body shook with an animal rage so intense I had to bite the inside of my lip until it bled to keep from screaming. She was going to murder my son in his crib to trigger the trust fund transfer.
The moment the door latched, I sprang from the chair. I grabbed the poisoned bottle, sealed it inside a sterile plastic baggie, and replaced it with an identical bottle of fresh milk from my hidden mini-fridge.
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I held Miles against my chest, his little heart beating steady and strong against mine.
"One more day, my sweet boy," I whispered into his soft hair. "Just twenty-four more hours."
