Chapter 2 - The Bitter Milk In The Silver Thermos
Garrett’s shadow stretched across the damp wood.
I held my breath until my lungs burned.
Tobias reached behind his back.
His hand closed around a heavy steel wrench on the catwalk.
The river lapped against the pilings below us.
Drip.
Drip.
Garrett took one step closer.
His boot heels clicked against the wet timber.
The flashlight beam flicked through a knot in the wood.
The light hit my wet sleeve.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
A sudden splash echoed twenty yards downriver.
A stray harbor seal broke the surface.
Garrett turned toward the sound.
“Just river trash,” he muttered into his phone.
He took a drag from a cigarette.
The glowing orange ember fell through the floorboards.
It landed inches from my boot.
“Meet me at the penthouse,” Garrett said coldly.
“Have the lawyer bring the emergency power of attorney.”
“The Mercer name dies tonight.”
His heavy steps faded away into the mist.
An engine revved on the road above.
A luxury sedan roared into the distance.
Tobias exhaled slowly.
He dropped the wrench.
“He’s going to execute the estate papers,” Tobias said.
“He thinks our bodies are pinned in forty feet of mud.”
“We need to get you to a doctor,” I whispered.
My hands trembled violently.
“No doctors,” Tobias snapped.
“County hospitals have records.”
“Records have names.”
“If Garrett discovers we survived, he won't use water next time.”
“He will use a bullet.”
Tobias led me through the maze of maintenance tunnels.
He walked with an athletic, silent stride.
Seeing him move made my head spin.
Fifteen years of pity vanished in an hour.
We emerged inside the boiler room of an old textile factory.
Tobias unlocked a rusted steel locker.
Inside hung dry clothes, boots, and three burner phones.
Cash sat in wrapped bundles.
“You prepared this?” I asked.
“I have four caches across the city,” he answered.
“I knew this day would come.”
“I didn't know he would use Penelope to do it.”
The mention of Penelope made my stomach churn.
Penelope was my father’s daughter from an affair.
When her mother died, my parents took her in.
We shared our home, our clothes, our education.
When our parents died, she cried on my shoulder.
Now she was carrying my husband’s child.
“How long have they been sleeping together?” I asked.
Tobias handed me a dry wool sweater.
“At least eighteen months,” he said flatly.
“I saw her car parked behind his private office last summer.”
“Why didn't you warn me?” I cried out.
“Would you have believed the crippled brother over your perfect husband?”
His words hit me like a physical blow.
He was right.
I had been blind.
I had defended Garrett against every whisper in the boardroom.
I peeled off my soaked blouse.
My skin was covered in dark, purplish bruises.
They ran down my arms and across my ribs.
I had noticed them for months.
Garrett had told me they were from iron deficiency.
Tobias took one look at my arms.
His jaw tightened.
He grabbed an empty plastic water bottle.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pocket knife.
“Spit in this,” Tobias commanded.
“What?”
“Spit in it, Rosalind.”
I spat saliva into the bottle.
It was tinged with faint pink blood.
“We’re going to a private lab in South Boston,” Tobias said.
“A biochemist owes me his life.”
“We need to find out what was in that milk.”
We took a rusted pickup truck from the factory yard.
The heater blasted stale, dusty air.
I stared at my reflection in the side mirror.
My eyes were sunken.
My lips were cracked and pale.
I looked like a corpse already.
We arrived at a windowless brick building near the docks.
A man named Dr. Chen met us at the rear delivery door.
He didn't ask questions about our clothes.
He looked at Tobias standing upright.
Chen didn't show a shred of surprise.
“You’re finally off the wheels, Mercer,” Chen muttered.
“Only for tonight,” Tobias said.
“Run her blood and saliva.”
“Screen for heavy metals and synthetic anticoagulants.”
Chen drew three vials of dark blood from my inner arm.
He placed the samples in a high-speed centrifuge.
The machine hummed like an angry wasp.
I sat on a metal stool, shivering.
“Garrett bought a silver thermos last year,” I murmured.
“He always kept it locked in his bedside drawer.”
“He poured the warm milk from that thermos every single evening.”
“He said it preserved the organic nutrients.”
Chen looked up from a computer monitor.
His face had lost all color.
“Mrs. Mercer,” Chen said softly.
“How long have you been drinking this mixture?”
“Nearly three years,” I answered.
Chen pointed to the screen.
The graph showed massive, jagged red spikes.
“This isn't an iron deficiency,” Chen said.
“You have catastrophic concentrations of thallium in your marrow.”
“Mixed with high doses of warfarin.”
Warfarin.
Rat poison.
A powerful blood thinner.
“The dose was microscopic,” Chen explained.
“Not enough to kill you quickly.”
“Just enough to mimic systemic organ failure.”
“In another six months, you would have suffered a fatal brain aneurysm.”
“No coroner would have suspected murder.”
“They would have called it natural stroke induced by executive exhaustion.”
My hand flew to my mouth.
Garrett had not just tried to drown me tonight.
He had been murdering me every single evening.
One warm glass at a time.
He had stroked my hair while my organs deteriorated.
He had told me he loved me while my blood dissolved.
“Why the river, then?” I asked through broken tears.
“Why drown me tonight if the poison was already working?”
Tobias walked to the window and pulled the blind aside.
“Because the quarterly audit is tomorrow morning,” Tobias said.
“Dad’s old trust requires an in-person thumbprint verification every five
years.”
“The deadline is tomorrow at noon.”
“If you didn't show up, the accounts would lock forever.”
“Garrett had to kill you before noon to file an emergency death certificate.”
My phone in my wet jacket suddenly buzzed.
It was a water-resistant burner phone Tobias had given me.
A news alert flashed across the screen:
BREAKING: MERCER SHIPYARD HEIRS FEARED DEAD IN TRAGIC HARBOR CRASH. CEO GARRETT
VANCE SURVIVES, IN CRITICAL MOURNING.
Beneath the headline was a photograph.
Garrett sat on the back of an ambulance.
He had a shock blanket around his shoulders.
Penelope knelt beside him, weeping into her hands.
The caption read:
Grieving husband vows to carry on the family legacy in honor of his lost wife.
Then my burner phone chimed with a private text message.
It was from an unknown number.
The text contained an audio file.
I pressed play.
A voice whispered through the speaker:
May you like
“Rosalind. If you survived the river, do not go home. Garrett put something in
your safe deposit box today.”
