Chapter 2 - The Evening Drip
Richard didn't panic.
In a single, fluid motion that defied every medical note in his thick clinical binder, he lowered himself back down onto the swivel transfer bench, swung his legs over the lip of the tub, and slumped his torso into the slack, defeated posture of a quadriplegic invalid.
He gave me a microscopic nod, his eyes returning to that vacant, hollow stare he had worn all evening.
I took a deep, steadying breath, wiped the nervous sweat from my palms onto my white cotton caregiver scrubs, and clicked the deadbolt open.
Chloe Vance stood on the threshold, framed by the recessed chandelier light of the bedroom. She was thirty-two, dressed in a black designer lounge jumpsuit, her blonde hair pulled into a sleek, high ponytail. In her French-manicured hands, she held a small stainless-steel medical tray containing a pre-filled plastic syringe and a small amber glass vial labeled NEURO-SEDATIVE COMPOUND 4.
Beside her stood Ethan Vance. Richard’s younger brother looked like a cheaper, softer copy of the CEO: expensive Italian knit polo, gold Rolex, and eyes that darted perpetually around the room, searching for angles.
“Why was the deadbolt turned, Maya?” Chloe asked, her lips curling into a tight, patronizing smile that didn't reach her cold blue eyes. “House policy is quite explicit: Richard’s suite is never locked. If he were to suffer a sudden respiratory spasm or slip from the bench, emergency response time is paramount.”
“Mr. Vance felt chilled by the draft from the balcony door, Mrs. Vance,” I replied smoothly, keeping my voice soft, submissive, and perfectly measured. I picked up a thick terrycloth towel, wrapping it carefully around Richard’s shoulders with practiced, professional tenderness. “I engaged the latch to keep the steam concentrated in the washroom while I massaged his lower lumbar muscles. As a certified nurse aide, I ensure patient dignity during personal hygiene.”
Ethan stepped past his wife, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the bathroom. He looked at Richard’s feet resting on the non-slip mat, then at the water level in the basin, and finally directly into Richard’s face.
Richard let out a soft, guttural sigh, his head rolling slightly to the left, his eyelids half-closed, mimicking the exact neurological deficits of severe post-concussive spasticity. A faint string of saliva gathered at the corner of his lower lip.
Ethan let out a soft, dismissive snort, shaking his head. “Look at him. The great visionary of Chicago healthcare. Can’t even hold his own neck straight.”
A surge of protective fury flared behind my ribs, but I forced my eyes down to the tile floor, clasping my hands behind my back. “He had a very exhausting physical therapy assessment this afternoon, Mr. Ethan.”
“Well, tonight will put him right to sleep,” Chloe purred, setting the metal tray onto the marble vanity counter beside my lotion bottles. “Dr. Sterling adjusted his nighttime intramuscular cocktail. Two milligrams of the compounded neuro-relaxant. Administer it in his left deltoid after you tuck him into the hospital bed.”
I stepped toward the tray, picking up the amber vial.
My home-care training had taught me how to read pharmaceutical manifests, and my four years nursing my stroke-afflicted father had made me intimately familiar with every neurological compound on the market.
The label on the vial read Baclofen/Diazepam Solution, but the liquid was too clear, completely lacking the faint amber opalescence typical of lipid-stabilized muscle relaxers.
“Of course, Mrs. Vance,” I said, nodding with humble deference. “I will administer it as soon as he is transferred to the bed.”
“Good,” Ethan said, checking his Rolex. “And Maya? Make sure you log the exact timestamp in the binder. The corporate legal auditors are reviewing his medical continuity files tomorrow morning. We want everything... immaculate.”
They turned and walked out of the suite, the bedroom door clicking shut behind them.
The second the latch caught, Richard’s head snapped upright.
He reached out, caught my wrist with surprising gentleness, and looked up at the vial in my other hand.
“What is it?” Richard asked, his voice low and sharp.
I brought the vial close to my nose, catching a faint, chemical trace beneath the rubber stopper.
“It’s not Baclofen,” I whispered, my heart turning to ice. “It’s high-potency Rocuronium mixed with potassium chloride. Administered in the muscle, it would cause progressive systemic paralysis over forty-five minutes. By midnight, your heart would cease contracting, and the autopsy would report an idiopathic myocardial infarction triggered by chronic neurological stress.”
Richard’s jaw hardened, the muscle in his temple ticking violently. “Ethan bought the medical examiner’s chief deputy six months ago. They’re running out of time. The shareholder meeting is in thirteen days.”
He stood up from the bench, walked steadily to the vanity, and opened the false bottom of an antique wooden shaving box sitting beneath the sink. Inside were six sterile syringes filled with saline solution, and three empty glass test tubes sealed with biohazard tape.
“Draw the poison into the test tube for forensic storage,” Richard ordered, handing me a sterile needle. “Inject the saline into my arm. We need the injection puncture mark on my deltoid when Ethan’s private physician checks the injection site tomorrow morning.”
I took the needle into my steady hands. As I drew the lethal chemical into the specimen tube, my mind flashed to my ex-mother-in-law Ofelia sneering on my front porch three days ago: “You’ll find out how hard it is to survive alone.”
She thought I was weak because I had spent four years washing bedpans and cleaning my father’s home. She thought caregiving was the work of a discarded woman.
She didn't know that caring for the vulnerable is where a woman learns how to look death in the face without flinching.
I pressed the saline into Richard’s shoulder. He didn't even wince.
“Sleep well, Mr. Vance,” I whispered, pulling the crisp linen sheets over his chest in the adjustable bed, dimming the bedside lamp to a soft amber glow.
May you like
Richard looked up at me from the pillows, his slate-gray eyes holding mine in the shadows.
“Call me Richard, Maya,” he murmured. “From tonight on, we are partners.”
