Chapter 3 - The Pill That Should Not Have Been There
That afternoon, Dr. Reynolds arrived.
He was in his late fifties, with narrow glasses and the impatient manner of a man accustomed to being obeyed.
Ethan returned home five minutes before him.
That interested me.
Dr. Reynolds examined Richard while Ethan remained in the room.
He checked reflexes.
Asked vague questions.
Reviewed nothing with me.
When I mentioned Richard’s increased sensation, the doctor barely reacted.
“Neurological patients often imagine improvement.”
“I’m not talking about imagination.”
I replied.
“I’m talking about measurable response.”
Ethan looked toward me.
Dr. Reynolds closed his medical bag.
“Mrs. Carter, Richard’s condition is extremely complex.”
“I understand.”
“Then you understand that false hope can be harmful.”
Richard sat quietly.
I could feel his anger from across the room.
“What medication are you using for nighttime muscle control?”
I asked.
Dr. Reynolds glanced at Ethan.
That tiny movement told me more than his answer.
“Standard supportive medication.”
“I’d like the exact names for my chart.”
“You don’t need to worry about that.”
Ethan interrupted.
“I’m responsible for his medication.”
I looked directly at him.
“I’m responsible for administering it.”
Silence filled the room.
Richard finally spoke.
“Give her the list.”
Ethan stared at him.
Richard rarely contradicted his brother in front of people.
That was intentional.
After a long pause, Ethan smiled.
“Of course.”
Dr. Reynolds handed me a printed medication list.
I read it twice.
The pill Richard had hidden was not on it.
My hands stayed steady.
My pulse did not.
That night, I waited until the house grew quiet.
Then I photographed the mystery pill and recorded its markings.
I did not use the estate computer.
Instead, I contacted a pharmacist I had known during my father’s illness.
I sent only the imprint information.
Her reply arrived twenty minutes later.
The medication was a powerful muscle relaxant with heavy sedating effects.
At Richard’s supposed dosage, it could significantly reduce coordination and physical responsiveness.
My stomach dropped.
I returned to Richard’s room.
He was waiting.
“Well?”
“It isn’t on your medication list.”
His expression did not change.
“What does it do?”
I told him.
He became completely still.
“Can it interfere with rehabilitation?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Potentially a lot.”
Richard closed his eyes.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he looked toward me.
“They give it to me every night.”
“Who?”
“Usually Chloe.”
That surprised me.
“Not a nurse?”
“We had one.”
“What happened to her?”
“She quit.”
“When?”
“Four months ago.”
“Why?”
“She said Ethan was interfering with medical decisions.”
Another missing professional.
Another person who had challenged Ethan and disappeared from the household.
I held the medication cup.
“We need proof.”
Richard nodded.
“I know where some might be.”
He pointed toward the large bookcase across from his bed.
“There’s a safe behind the third shelf.”
“What’s inside?”
“Copies of records I kept before the accident.”
I stared at him.
“Business records?”
“And insurance documents.”
“Why would those matter?”
“Because six weeks before my crash, Ethan asked me to change my life insurance beneficiaries.”
A chill moved through me.
“To him?”
“To the family trust.”
“And who controls the trust?”
Richard’s eyes met mine.
“Ethan does.”
The floor outside creaked.
We both froze.
A shadow moved beneath the door.
May you like
Someone was standing there.
Listening.
