Chapter 2 - The Saline Decoy
The grandfather clock in the downstairs gallery chimed twice, its deep brass tone vibrating through the floorboards of Raymond Winslow’s bedroom. Outside the panoramic bay windows, the relentless Pacific Northwest rain tapped against the glass like a thousand frantic fingers demanding entry.
I sat in the wingback armchair beside Raymond’s bed, my knees pulled up against my chest. Theodore was curled against my ribs, his tiny chest rising and falling in the deep, undisturbed sleep of infancy. His forehead was cool now; the fever had broken around midnight. But my own skin felt burning hot, electric with terror.
On my phone screen, the search results remained open. The medication Dr. Wallace had injected was called *Vecuronium bromide*—a potent, non-depolarizing neuromuscular blocking agent typically reserved for general anesthesia or intensive care intubation. In low, steady micro-doses administered without respiratory ventilation, it wouldn't kill a man outright. Instead, it would gradually suppress his autonomic nervous system, paralyzing his skeletal muscles, thickening his speech, and starving his brain of oxygen just enough to mimic the final stages of multi-system organ failure.
It was murder disguised as a gentle decline.
A soft, scraping sound drew my eyes back to the bed.
Raymond was staring at me. His hazel eyes, framed by gaunt, hollowed sockets, were wide and piercing in the gloom. He didn’t blink. He just watched my face, reading the fear written across it.
I leaned forward, keeping Theodore balanced securely against my shoulder. I lowered my voice until it was barely a breath against Raymond’s ear.
“The medicine Dr. Wallace is giving you,” I whispered, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to steady it. “It’s a paralytic. It’s stopping your muscles from working. It’s what’s making you look comatose.”
Raymond blinked once. Hard. Deliberate.
“You knew?” I breathed.
One blink.
Tears sprang into my eyes. The horror of it pressed down on my chest like a physical weight. For two months, this man had been trapped behind his own ribcage, completely awake, feeling his breath grow thinner, hearing his nephew discuss flower arrangements and estate taxes right at the foot of his bed. He had listened to the world write him off while a paid assassin in a doctor’s white coat slowly squeezed the life out of him.
“Why didn’t you fight back before?” I asked.
Raymond’s mouth twisted. His jaw worked, a tremor running through the grayish stubble along his jawline. It took nearly twenty seconds of visible, agonizing effort for him to force a single, raspy syllable past his dry lips.
“P-poison… in… food… first.”
I covered my mouth with a trembling hand. Before the injections had started, they had weakened him through his meals. By the time he realized Christopher was trying to kill him, he had already lost the physical ability to cry out for help.
“Listen to me,” I said, leaning closer, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Wallace comes back every afternoon at four. He brings the vials in his bag. If he gives you another full dose tomorrow, your lungs might not recover. You won’t last the week.”
Raymond’s gaze dropped to Theodore, whose cheek was squished against my sweater, sucking softly in his dreams. Raymond’s eyes softened, a faint glint of moisture pooling at the corners, before snapping back to mine with fierce, desperate intensity.
Two blinks. *No.* He didn't want to die.
“I have an idea,” I whispered, “but if Christopher catches me, he won't just fire me. He’ll make sure Theodore and I disappear. You know what he’s capable of.”
One slow blink. *Yes.*
“Then we have to be smarter than them.”
I spent the remaining hours before dawn studying the medical cart in the adjoining bathroom. Because Raymond was receiving routine IV fluids to keep him hydrated, the bathroom closet was stocked with standard sterile supplies: alcohol prep pads, butterfly needles, five-milliliter plastic syringes, and sealed ampoules of sodium chloride—plain sterile saline.
My hands shook as I took one of the empty syringes from its paper backing. In nursing school, before my pregnancy and before my mother’s illness forced me to drop out to work double shifts at a diner, I had practiced injections on rubber pads until my fingers bled. I knew the mechanics. I knew the weights and measurements.
Dr. Wallace was arrogant. Arrogant men were predictable. Every day, he walked in, set his leather satchel on the low cedar chest near the door, drew the amber liquid from his personal vial, and pushed it through the secondary Y-port of Raymond’s IV line. He never inspected the port before pushing the drug. He never stayed more than ten minutes after the injection, just long enough to watch Raymond’s pulse ox drop on the bedside monitor.
If I could switch the syringes—or better yet, flush the line immediately before the poison took hold—I might buy us time. But flushing wouldn't work; the Vecuronium would already be in Raymond’s bloodstream.
I had to replace the drug itself.
At 7:00 AM, the heavy oak door of the bedroom swung open without a knock.
I instinctively shielded Raymond with my shoulder, pretending to adjust the heavy wool blanket over his legs.
Christopher stepped into the room. He was dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, holding a porcelain cup of black coffee that smelled faintly of cinnamon. His silver-streaked hair was combed back with military precision, and his cold, calculating gray eyes swept over the room like an auditor searching for a missing cent.
“You’re still awake, Nora,” Christopher said, taking a slow sip from his mug. It wasn't a compliment; it was an interrogation.
“Theodore had a rough night, Mr. Winslow,” I replied, keeping my eyes respectfully lowered, playing the part of the meek, exhausted girl who was just grateful for a warm roof over her head. “His teeth are coming in. I’ve been changing Raymond’s ice packs and turning him every two hours as directed.”
Christopher walked over to the side of the bed. He didn't look at his uncle with affection, sorrow, or even basic human pity. He looked at him the way a landlord looks at an eviction notice waiting to be signed.
He reached down and casually flicked Raymond’s earlobe with his manicured index finger.
Raymond didn't flinch. His face remained slack, his breathing rhythmic and shallow. It was an Oscar-worthy performance born of pure survival instinct.
“He smells like old paper,” Christopher muttered, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “The funeral directors asked if we wanted an open casket. I told them absolutely not. Look at him. He’s already a ghost.”
A cold fury ignited in the pit of my stomach, but I swallowed it down, keeping my voice mild. “Dr. Wallace said he is resting comfortably.”
“Dr. Wallace is paid to ensure this process is dignified,” Christopher said sharply, turning his gaze on me. His eyes were flat, devoid of warmth. “Which brings me to you, Nora. You’ve been here three days. My uncle’s private account covers your agency fee through Friday. After that, we won't require private nursing care anymore.”
My breath caught in my throat. “Friday?”
“The doctors agree his organs are failing,” Christopher said smoothly, taking another sip of his coffee. “Keeping him tethered to fluids and machines past the end of the week would be cruel. We’ll be removing the supplemental lines on Friday evening. You’ll receive a glowing recommendation and an extra two weeks’ pay in cash. Provided, of course, that everything remains quiet until then.”
The subtext hung in the cold morning air like poison gas: *Be silent, let him die on schedule, take your blood money, and walk away.*
“I understand,” I lied, my voice steady. “Thank you, Mr. Winslow.”
He nodded once, satisfied by my subservience, and walked toward the door. Just before stepping out into the hall, he paused, his back to me.
“Keep your son out of the main hall today, Nora. The legal team is arriving at noon to finalize the estate transition documents. I don't want crying babies ruining the ambiance of a very delicate business transaction.”
The heavy door clicked shut behind him.
I waited until his expensive leather shoes squeaked down the polished hardwood corridor before I collapsed back into the chair, my knees trembling so violently that Theodore stirred in my arms.
Friday.
Today was Wednesday.
Raymond Winslow had forty-eight hours to live unless I defied the men who owned this mansion.
I turned back to the bed. Raymond’s eyes were open again, blazing with an unspoken fire. His lips moved, fighting against the lingering paralysis in his throat.
I pressed my ear directly to his cold, pale lips.
“Study…” Raymond gasped out, every syllable costing him a gallon of sweat. “Desk… false bottom… audio.”
My heart stopped. “You recorded them?”
One slow, deliberate blink.
“Where is the key?” I asked.
Raymond’s gaze shifted downward, pointing with his eyes toward the corner of the room where his closet stood locked.
“Cufflinks…” he whispered. “Silver… box.”
May you like
Before I could ask another question, the sudden chime of the front doorbell echoed from the marble foyer downstairs. The legal team was early. And in less than eight hours, Dr. Wallace would walk through that door with a syringe that Raymond’s heart would not survive.
***
