Chapter 2 - The Cold Juice
Hook:
“Say that again, Toby,” I commanded, my voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Word for word.”
Conflict:
Toby flinched at my tone, pulling his hand closer to his chest. “Don't be mad at me, Dad. I didn't do anything wrong.”
“I’m not mad at you, baby. I swear to God I’m not. But you have to tell me exactly what she tapped.”
My pulse roared in my ears. Sarah Mercer was thirty-four years old. She was the chief compliance auditor for bio-pharmaceutical contracts at Aegis Health. Two months ago, she collapsed on our kitchen floor mid-sentence while making coffee. The official diagnosis was an atypical, catastrophic cerebrovascular accident—an unexplained stroke that baffled the county’s best specialists.
Discovery:
Toby swallowed hard, pointing to the clear IV line feeding into the back of Sarah’s left wrist. “Every night at eight, Dr. Vance comes in by himself. Not the nurses. Just him. He brings a little glass bottle in his coat pocket. He pushes it into her tube. Mom told me it feels like ice inside her veins. She calls it the cold juice.”
“She told you that?”
“With her fingers! Last week, she tapped: *COLD JUICE KEEPS ME SLEEPING.* Tonight, when he walked out, she squeezed my palm until it hurt. She spelled: *VANCE POISON RUN.*”
Twist:
A sudden click echoed at the doorway.
The heavy oak door swung inward. Standing in the threshold with his white coat draped casually over his broad shoulders was Dr. Robert Vance. He was thirty-eight, a golden-boy neurologist, and a guy I had known for ten years. He was also my older brother Mark’s college roommate—the man Mark had personally pulled strings to get assigned to Sarah’s case.
Emotion:
Vance looked down at Toby, then up at me, a tight, patronizing smile curling his lips. In his right hand, half-tucked into his pocket, I saw the distinct amber gleam of an unlabeled glass vial.
“Leo,” Vance said smoothly, stepping into the room. “Still here? Visiting hours ended thirty minutes ago. You need to take Toby home. He’s looking ragged, man.”
Cliffhanger:
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I stood up, deliberately stepping between Vance and my son. “What’s in your coat pocket, Robert?”
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