"With your business consultant?"
The monitor was vibrating faster and faster.
Caleb's smile faded.
"She helps with succession planning."
Rebecca blinked once. The room blurred, then cleared.
"Vanessa said she finally felt like the house belonged to her."
The security guard looked at Caleb.
Dr. Harris too.
For three seconds nobody spoke.
Caleb then placed the cup in the test bag.
The scent of lemon and honey lingered in the air after she moved her hand away.
Inspector Cole sealed the bag.
"The hospital lab is running another rapid toxicology test on Ms. Ward's blood," he said. "This time, we know what to look for."
Caleb let out a soft, controlled laugh.
"That's absurd."
Dr. Harris remained unfazed.
"The absurd thing is that his liver function tests improve every time he skips his tea."
Rebecca's hand tightened its grip on the tablet.
That sentence was harder to hear than the diagnosis.
Improving.
It's not cured. I'm not sure. It's not free.
But it's getting better.
The word hit him like oxygen.
Caleb heard it too.
His face changed so quickly that Rebecca barely noticed. The grieving husband broke down, and beneath him lurked something colder, smaller, more cornered.
—Rebecca —he said, lowering his voice—, don't do that.
He looked at the cup that was inside the sealed bag.
His father's envelope had been opened.
Her safe was empty because she had moved the papers.
Nora was already home.
Attorney Whitaker had already been called.
For months, Caleb had mistaken his weakness for surrender.
Rebecca looked at him.
"I won't drink it."
Four words.
The room contained them.
Caleb pursed his lips.
Inspector Cole nodded to the security guard.
"Mr. Ward, please come into the hallway."
First he turned to Dr. Harris, in a last attempt to circumvent the authority.
"My wife needs me."
Dr. Harris positioned himself between Caleb and the bed.
"His wife needs a controlled environment and no unsupervised contact."
Caleb's nostrils flared.
Only once.
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