Chapter 3 - The Snake in the Family Tree
Within three hours, two top-tier toxicologists from Yale New Haven Hospital—brought to the estate under guard and sworn to absolute secrecy by Nathan’s men—were working in the improvised medical bay set up in the boys' wing.
The analysis of the aerosol liquid and the compounded bottle was swift and horrifying.
"Thallium sulfate mixed with a low-grade organic solvent," Dr. Elena Vance explained, placing her laptop on Nathan’s desk. "Administered in micro-doses over a prolonged period, it produces symptoms almost indistinguishable from severe autoimmune degeneration or chronic fatigue. Muscle weakness, hair thinning, neurological fog, organ distress. If it had continued for another two months, their heart muscles would have sustained permanent damage."
Nathan stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the mahogany frame. "Can they recover?"
"Yes," Dr. Vance said, nodding firmly. "Because Miss Mitchell identified the source before the lethal threshold was crossed. We’ve already started them on Prussian blue therapy to bind the heavy metals and flush them from their systems. Their vitals are already stabilizing."
Nathan let out a long, ragged breath. He closed his eyes for five full seconds, absorbing the news. When he opened them, the relief was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating wrath.
"Why would Ashford do this?" Nathan murmured. "I paid him two million dollars over the past eight months. If he wanted money, he could have asked for more."
"He wasn't doing it for your money," I said from the corner armchair where I had been reviewing the estate's staff logs.
Nathan turned to me. "What did you find?"
"Dr. Ashford didn't apply to be your family physician," I said, holding up a copy of the employment record. "He was recommended to you by your late wife’s brother. Victor Vance."
Nathan’s jaw tightened instantly. "Victor?"
"Your brother-in-law sits on the board of Coleman Enterprises," I continued, placing the file on the desk between us. "Under your late wife's trust agreement, if your children pass away without legal heirs, her thirty-five percent voting share in the logistics division reverts back to her side of the family—specifically to Victor."
Nathan stared at the file. The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place, creating a picture far more sinister than simple medical malpractice.
"Victor lost two hundred million in the European shipping collapse last year," Nathan said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "He was desperate."
"Ashford was just the weapon," I said. "Victor was the hand holding it."
A heavy knock sounded at the office door. Gerald entered, his expression grim.
"Mr. Coleman," Gerald said softly. "Mr. Victor Vance has just arrived at the front gate. He claims he has urgent paperwork regarding the quarterly board meeting tomorrow morning."
May you like
Nathan looked at me. A slow, terrifying smile crept across his face—a look that revealed precisely why he had survived twenty years at the head of the most powerful criminal enterprise on the Eastern Seaboard.
"Let him in," Nathan said. "And make sure he’s escorted to the drawing room."
