Chapter 3 - The Doctor’s Ledger
Before Arthur could process the full weight of the revelation, Mrs. Gable hurried back into the room. She was clutching a yellowed, folded piece of paper—an old pharmacy receipt tucked inside a plastic sleeve.
Arthur snatched it from her hands.
The ink had faded, but the details were stark: Compound: Digoxin-potassium blocker variant. Prescribing Physician: Dr. Julian Voss, M.D. Patient: Eleanor Bennett.
Arthur’s vision narrowed to a tunnel of pure, blinding rage. Digoxin in high, unregulated doses mimicking an electrolyte imbalance could trigger a sudden, fatal arrhythmia or simulate a massive cerebral hemorrhage. It left almost no trace if the autopsy didn't specifically test for rare cardiac glycoside derivatives—and ten years ago, with a grieving husband signing every waiver to clear the body quickly, no one had looked twice.
“Why?” Arthur breathed out, the word tearing from his throat. “Why would Voss target Eleanor? We had no enemies. We gave millions to North River Medical Center!”
“Because of the land grant, Mr. Bennett,” Mrs. Gable sobbed, wiping her eyes with her apron. “Before you married Mrs. Bennett, her family owned the entire North River district—hundreds of acres where the medical center now stands. When her father died, she inherited the trust. Dr. Voss wanted to expand the hospital complex across the entire valley, but Mrs. Bennett refused to sign the zoning transfer rights. She wanted to turn it into a public park.”
Arthur remembered the dispute from a decade ago. He had smoothed it over himself, negotiating the final land sale with the hospital board while Eleanor had stayed home, exhausted and unwell.
He had thought he was just being a successful businessman, securing a massive developmental contract for Bennett Development.
In reality, he had handed his wife’s killers the deed to her family legacy—and then invited them into his home to treat his son.
“He’s finishing what he started,” Matthew said, his breathing growing slightly more labored as the emotional shock hit his failing heart. “I found his medical journal on my tablet last week. He logged every drop of my medication. He called me... Project Heir.”
The monitor beside the bed began to beep faster. Beep-beep-beep-beep.
“Matthew!” Arthur rushed forward, grabbing his son’s shoulders. “Stay with me. Do you hear me? We are ending this right now.”
“Dad... the cake,” Matthew muttered, his eyes fluttering half-closed. “He sent Mrs. Gable that recipe today. It was a test. To see if we were paying attention.”
Arthur looked down at the slice of red velvet cake. The sweet, rich aroma felt sickening now, like copper and ash.
He pulled out his phone, his thumb flying across the screen. He didn't call the police. The police in Austin had jurisdiction, but money and influence bought slow justice. Arthur Bennett didn't have time for slow justice. His son had days—maybe hours—left.
He dialed his chief of private security, Marcus Vance, a former black-ops operative who handled corporate threats that never made the news.
“Marcus,” Arthur said, his voice cold, steady, and lethal. “Drop everything. I want Dr. Julian Voss brought to my estate within the hour. If he resists, break his legs. I don't care. Bring him to the basement study.”
“Consider it done, Mr. Bennett,” Marcus replied instantly.
May you like
Arthur hung up. He looked down at Matthew, who had drifted into an exhausted, feverish sleep. The housekeeper stood trembling in the corner, terrified of what the billionaire construction boss was about to unleash.
“Lock the doors,” Arthur told Mrs. Gable. “And don't let anyone in until Marcus arrives.”
