Chapter 6 - The Poisoned Tea
The next morning broke pale and cold over Greenwich.
At 7:30 a.m., I sat in the dining room wearing a silk robe, sipping black coffee. Fiona was sitting across from me, happily devouring a stack of blueberry waffles, her bright laugh filling the room as our golden retriever sat beside her chair, waiting for dropped crumbs.
She looked happy. Safe.
Because I was home.
Jessi walked into the kitchen, kissing my cheek before pouring herself coffee. "You look tired, babe. Did you sleep at all last night?"
"Just had a lot on my mind," I smiled gently, taking her hand. "Hey, sweetie... why don't you take Fiona up to the city today? Go shopping, get your nails done, see a Broadway matinee?"
Jessi beamed. "Really? On a Tuesday?"
"You both deserve a day out," I said, pulling out my black Amex card and sliding it across the table. "Take my car and driver. Spend the whole day in Manhattan. Don't come back until nine tonight."
Fiona clapped her hands. "Can we see The Lion King, Mommy?!"
"We sure can, sweetie!" Jessi laughed, grabbing the card. "You're the best, David."
I looked at my daughter, memorizing her bright smile. By nine o'clock tonight, the monsters will be gone forever, baby.
By 10:00 a.m., Jessi and Fiona had left for Manhattan in my armored suburban.
Twenty minutes later, Wendy walked through the back door of the main house carrying a crystal tea pitcher. She wore a bright pink sweater, acting like the dutiful grandmother.
"Good morning, David!" Wendy chirped, setting the pitcher on the kitchen island. "I brought over some of my homemade iced chamomile tea! It’s wonderful for stress."
I sat at the kitchen counter, watching her every move through the reflection of the stainless steel refrigerator.
I saw her hand slip into her cardigan pocket. I saw her drop a small, clear liquid capsule into the crystal tumbler she poured for me.
Cyanide derivative? Synthetic digitalis?
Marcus’s team was watching through buttonhole cameras installed in the ceiling lights.
"Thank you, Wendy," I said, sliding the tumbler toward me without touching it. "You’re always looking out for my health."
"Oh, you know me!" Wendy chuckled nervously, smoothing her skirt. "Family comes first! Speaking of which... did your legal team send over the finalized Nassau trust documents?"
"They did," I said, pulling a thick leather binder from my briefcase and placing it on the island between us. "Fifty million dollars, transferrable immediately upon my signature and notarization."
Wendy’s eyes glittered like a viper staring at a cornered rabbit.
"Wonderful!" she gasped. "We should sign it right away! I can take it to the bank in Stamford before noon!"
"There’s just one small problem, Wendy," I said, leaning back in my chair.
Her smile faltered. "Problem?"
"The Nassau bank requires a second beneficiary signature," I lied smoothly. "Because of the tax structure, the primary trust manager must sign in person before a mobile notary."
"I... I am the primary trust manager!" Wendy insisted, pointing to her chest.
"No," I said, looking straight into her eyes. "The secondary manager listed on the corporate charter is Apex Logistics. Which means Mr. Derek Thorne needs to sign right beside you."
Wendy froze.
The air in the kitchen turned into liquid lead.
"Who?" Wendy whispered, her lips turning gray.
"Derek Thorne," I repeated calmly. "Your business partner at Apex Logistics in Bridgeport. The man with the scar on his face. The man you took Fiona to see yesterday afternoon while I was supposed to be in Chicago."
Wendy took two steps backward, hitting her lower back against the marble counter. Her breath came in short, jagged gasps. "David... I... I don't know what you're talking about—"
"Stop lying, Wendy," I growled, my voice dropping into a register that made the glass cabinets rattle slightly. "I know Julian Vance is alive. I know about the staged boat crash. I know about the ten-million-dollar insurance fraud. And I know you tried to slip a digitalis compound into my tea thirty seconds ago."
Wendy stared at me in pure, unadulterated horror.
She reached for her purse, but I moved faster than thought. I grabbed her wrist, pinning it against the marble island, and extracted the small glass vial from her cardigan pocket, tossing it onto the counter.
"You're a monster, Wendy," I hissed into her pale face. "You sold out your own daughter. You tried to poison her husband. And you terrified my seven-year-old child."
Wendy began to weep—not from remorse, but from the terrifying realization that her entire trap had collapsed.
"David... please..." she sobbed. "Julian forced me! He threatened to kill me if I didn't help him!"
"Save it for the grand jury," I said, releasing her wrist. "Now pick up your phone and call him."
"What?" she whimpered.
"Call Julian," I commanded, pointing to her phone. "Tell him I drank the tea. Tell him I’m unconscious on the kitchen floor, and the fifty-million-dollar trust binder is wide open on the counter."
Wendy swallowed hard, her body shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. "And... and if I don't?"
May you like
"If you don't," I leaned in close, "Marcus’s team outside will upload the recorded video of you poisoning my drink straight to the FBI in three seconds flat. You’ll spend the rest of your life in a federal penitentiary without ever seeing the sun again."
Wendy’s shaking fingers reached for her phone.
