Chapter 6 - The Uninvited Doctor
Naomi did not panic.
In her fifty-two years, panic had never solved a single problem. When her husband was dying and the insurance company denied his chemotherapy coverage, panic wouldn't have paid the bills. Only cold, methodical strategy had carried her through.
She took the jewelry box and the morphine bottle, wrapped them in a plastic trash liner from her backseat, and walked to the gas station’s industrial recycling dumpster. She didn't throw them away—that would be destruction of evidence. Instead, she wedged them deep into the narrow space between the dumpster and the concrete retaining wall, hidden from view, and marked the GPS coordinates on her phone.
Then, she abandoned the damaged Camry.
She walked two blocks to a 24-hour diner, walked into the restroom, washed the blood from her face, and called David Chen from a burner phone she bought with cash at the register.
Twenty minutes later, David’s unmarked silver sedan pulled up to the curb.
Naomi climbed into the passenger seat, clutching the insulated tote bag.
“You look like hell,” David said, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as he merged into traffic.
“I’ve looked worse,” Naomi said grimly. “They transferred Evelyn to St. Jude’s in Westchester. Celeste has ties to the facility.”
David swore under his breath. “St. Jude’s isn't a hospital, Naomi. It’s an ultra-exclusive executive hospice. They cater to billionaires who want their elderly relatives to die quietly without the media finding out. Once someone goes behind those iron gates, nobody gets in without power of attorney.”
“Celeste is going to kill her tonight,” Naomi said, looking out at the rain-lashed highway. “She can't afford for Evelyn to wake up and speak to Adrian. Did you run the pills?”
David nodded, his jaw tight. “I did a quick chromatography run on the sample you gave me before you arrived. It’s not an ordinary sedative. It’s an experimental neuro-inhibitor called *Thalapram*. It causes confusion, loss of motor control, and mimics progressive multi-infarct dementia. In high doses, it suppresses the respiratory center without leaving obvious chemical markers unless the coroner specifically tests for synthetic peptide metabolites.”
“Who manufactures it?”
“A pharmaceutical startup funded primarily by a private equity fund out of Boston,” David said, casting a grim look at her. “Arden Capital.”
Naomi’s eyes hardened. “Arden. Celeste’s family?”
“Celeste doesn't have a family in Boston, Naomi,” David said quietly, pulling a file folder from the backseat. “I did some digging through old court records while I waited for you. Her real name isn't Celeste Arden. It’s Celeste Vane. Her father was Thomas Vane.”
Naomi gasped. The name hit her like an electric shock.
Thomas Vane had been the chief financial officer of Vale Meridian fifteen years ago. When Adrian’s father uncovered a massive embezzlement scheme, Thomas Vane had been indicted, stripped of his assets, and sentenced to twenty years in federal prison. He had hanged himself in his cell three weeks after the conviction.
“This isn't just about sixty billion dollars,” Naomi whispered, the horrifying realization dawning on her. “This is revenge.”
“She spent twelve years reinventing herself,” David said. “New name, new face, elite European finishing schools, calculated appearances at society fundraisers where Adrian would notice her. She didn't just want the money. She wanted to dismantle the Vale family from the inside out.”
“And she’s starting with Evelyn,” Naomi said, checking her watch. It was 8:15 PM. “Turn the car around, David. We’re going to Westchester.”
“Naomi, we can't just walk into St. Jude’s! They have armed private security!”
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“They have night shift orderlies,” Naomi corrected him, her voice chillingly calm. “And unlike Adrian, I know how private institutions run. The cleaning staff always has the master keys.”
***
