Chapter 8 - The Net Tightens
By Tuesday morning, the world had become a construct of sounds and smells.
I lay in a private, sterile room in the burn unit of St. Jude’s Hospital, wrapped in specialized hydrogel bandages that made my head feel heavy and alien. The searing fire had receded into a dull, throbbing ache, kept at bay by a steady intravenous drip of fentanyl and broad-spectrum antibiotics.
The doctor had delivered the miracle an hour earlier: because Liam had acted within seconds, using the heavy wool jacket to shield the majority of my face and wipe away the bulk of the liquid before the deeper layers of dermis were liquefied, my eyesight was intact. The burns were severe second-degree across my left cheek and neck, with localized third-degree patches along my collarbone.
I would bear scars. But I would see my son again.
The door to the room creaked open. The soft rustle of an overcoat announced Detective Miller before he spoke.
“Mrs. Vance?”
I turned my bandaged head toward the sound. Liam was already on his feet from the vinyl armchair beside my bed, where he had spent the last forty-eight hours without sleeping.
“Detective,” Liam said, his voice raw. “Tell me she’s in a cell.”
Miller pulled out a notebook, his heavy sigh filling the room. “We brought Paige Vance in for questioning twelve hours ago. Her husband arrived within twenty minutes accompanied by two senior partners from Sterling & Cole—the most expensive defense firm in the state.”
“She threw poison in my wife’s face in front of eighty witnesses!” Liam exploded, stepping toward the detective. “How is she not behind bars?!”
“Because she’s running a defense script, Mr. Vance,” Miller said patiently, though his jaw was set tight. “She claims it was a decorative party punch. A signature cocktail ordered from a third-party catering service called *Lumière Events.* She claims she had an argument with Nora, lost her temper, and threw the drink, having no idea it contained anything hazardous.”
“That’s a lie!” I rasped from the bed, my vocal cords scratchy and dry. “She knew. She smiled.”
“We know she’s lying,” Miller said, leaning in. “Forensics raided the Vanderbilt Estate yesterday morning. Every single pitcher, punch bowl, and glass from that terrace had been thoroughly washed and sanitized before our team arrived at two a.m. The catering staff vanished. The company registered to *Lumière Events*? A paper shell corporation set up six months ago with an offshore routing number in the Caymans.”
“The flash drive,” I whispered, lifting my bandaged hand. “Liam... the flash drive from the fire pit.”
Liam reached into his pocket and placed the encrypted titanium drive into Detective Miller’s palm.
“What is this?” Miller asked, turning the charred metal over in his fingers.
“Paige had that inside her Gucci bag at my son’s birthday party,” I said, every word costing me effort. “She had a security clearance badge for a facility called *Vanguard Bio-Synthetic Solutions.* Look into that company, Detective. Paige wasn't an interior designer. She was moving something through Connor’s commercial properties.”
Miller’s eyes sharpened. He stared at the drive, then looked back at me with a newfound intensity.
“Vanguard Bio-Synthetics,” Miller repeated slowly. “We’ve had an open federal task force circling that name for eighteen months. Three months ago, an industrial container of experimental transdermal corrosive agents went missing from their research facility in New Jersey. The manifest listed the compound under a research code: *Agent Rose-7.*”
A chill raced down my spine, colder than the saline they had poured on my face.
*Rose-7.*
Pink. Shimmering. Scented like artificial fruit to mask the chemical death within.
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“Paige didn't just throw a drink,” Miller said, slipping the drive into an evidence bag. “She executed an order. But the question is... who gave it to her?”
***
