Chapter 4 - PLAYING THE PREY
Headline: With her husband’s footsteps echoing outside the door, she had seconds to hide the evidence of his 15-year scam—or become his next victim.
My heart leaped into my throat.
Step. Step. Step.
He was halfway up the stairs.
With trembling hands, I shoved the documents back into the plastic box, slammed the lid shut, and pushed it back into the floorboard cavity. I threw the oak board back in place and kicked the heavy wool rug over it.
There was no time to put the screws back in.
I scrambled to the door, slipped out of the office, locked it, and shoved the brass key back onto the ledge above the doorframe just as Eric turned the corner of the hallway.
I leaned against the wall, chest heaving, pretending to rub my temples.
Eric stopped. His eyes went straight to his office door, then to me. His gaze was sharp, calculating. "Claire? What are you doing out of bed? I thought you were sleeping."
"I... I couldn't sleep," I stammered, putting on my best disoriented act. I let my eyes wander vacantly. "I got confused, Eric. I thought... I thought I heard my mother calling me from your office. Isn't that strange? She's been gone so long."
The suspicion in Eric's eyes instantly melted into a sickening, patronizing warmth. He stepped forward, taking my shoulders. "Oh, my poor darling. The confusion is getting worse. Come, let's get you back to bed."
He led me back to the guest room. He had a steaming mug of tea in his hand.
"Here," he said, pressing the mug into my hands. "I made your favorite. Drink it all down. It will make the voices go away."
I looked down at the dark, amber liquid. The steam rose, carrying a faintly bitter, chemical scent beneath the chamomile.
"Thank you, Eric," I whispered. "You're so good to me."
"I love you, Claire. More than you'll ever know." He smiled, petting my hair. "I have to run back down to the office to take care of a few things. Drink your tea, okay?"
"Okay."
The moment he closed the door, I ran to the en-suite bathroom. I poured the poisoned tea down the sink, running the water hot to flush away any residue. Then, I took the mug, wiped the rim, and set it on the nightstand, looking completely empty.
I sat on the bed and pulled out my phone. I had to act fast, but I couldn't call the police. With Dr. Vance’s signed psychiatric evaluations, any wild claim I made about my husband poisoning me would look like the exact "paranoid delusions" they had documented. I would be committing myself to their clinic.
I needed allies.
I dialed a number I hadn't called in years.
"Marcus?"
"Claire?" My brother's voice came through the line, surprised. We had been estranged for two years—largely because Eric had systematically convinced me that Marcus was trying to steal our mother's estate. "Is everything okay? You sound... different."
"Marcus, I don't have much time," I whispered, tears spilling over my eyelashes. "You were right about Eric. You were right about everything. He's poisoning me. He’s trying to steal the trust fund. I need your help."
There was a long, tense silence on the line.
"Where are you?" Marcus asked, his voice suddenly hard as steel.
"I'm at the house. He's downstairs. He thinks I'm drugged. Marcus, he has my psychiatrist, Evelyn Vance, in on it. They’re married."
"Jesus Christ, Claire. I'm coming to get you."
"No!" I said. "If you come now, they’ll play the crazy card, and the police will believe Dr. Vance’s medical license over us. We need to catch them in the act. Next week is the charity gala for the City Hospital. Dr. Vance is the keynote speaker, and Eric is hosting the financial donor segment. We are going to expose them there. In front of everyone."
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"What do you need me to do?" Marcus asked.
"I need you to contact a private investigator. And I need you to find Frank at the Riverside Market on Elm Street. He has the security footage. We need to build a case they can never escape."
