The silence in the hallway felt heavier than a physical blow. Dr. Bennett’s single word—Poisoned—hung in the sterile air between us, vibrating with lethal intent.

The impact of the metal hamper sent me crashing against the doorframe, but the adrenaline surging through my veins drowned out the pain. I grabbed the edge of the hamper, dug my heels into the floor, and yanked it backward with all the strength six years of college football and heavy construction labor had given me.

The hamper flipped onto its side, spilling sheets, towels, and the black biohazard bag onto the floor.

The man in the gray uniform spun around, pulling a short, silver scalpel from his apron pocket. He slashed wildy at my face. I jerked my head back, feeling the cold steel graze the skin of my jaw, leaving a faint line of red.

"Who paid you?" I growled, stepping inside his guard, grabbing his wrist, and slamming it against the concrete wall.

The scalpel clattered to the floor.

He was young—maybe twenty-five—with sunken eyes and a jagged tattoo of a serpent on his neck. A local street worker, hired to do dirty work.

"I don't know nothin'!" he screamed, struggling against my grip. "A guy gave me five grand in cash to clear the room! Said it was corporate disposal!"

I shoved him against the wall, my hand crushing his throat. "Give me a name!"

"I don't have a name! It was a phone call! The money was in a locker at the bus station!"

I reached down with my free hand, grabbed the black biohazard bag, and ripped it open. Inside was the sealed glass bottle of tea, its cap twisted off, along with two used IV syringes that hadn't been supplied by the hospital pharmacy.

Footsteps thundered down the service hallway.

Two hospital security guards, followed by Dr. Bennett and my brother Julian, rounded the corner.

"Get him!" Dr. Bennett yelled.

The guards tackled the young worker to the ground, pinning his arms behind his back. I stood over them, breathing heavily, holding the sealed glass bottle up to the harsh fluorescent light. A faint white sediment sat at the bottom of the amber liquid.

Julian stepped up beside me, looking down at the bottle with a pale, sweating face. "Mason... Jesus Christ. Someone actually tried to kill her. Right here in the hospital."

I looked at my younger brother. I noticed for the first time that his knuckles were raw and red, as if he had been in a fistfight within the last few hours. His jacket smelled faintly of stale tobacco and cheap cologne—the same cologne Marcus Vance wore.

"Where were you ten minutes ago, Julian?" I asked softly.

Julian flinched. "What? I was in the waiting room! Asking the desk nurse about the babies!"

"The desk nurse said no one was in the waiting room when Claire collapsed," I replied, stepping closer to him. "And you smell like Marcus's cigars. You were talking to him in the parking garage, weren't you?"

Julian swallowed hard, his eyes darting frantically toward the security guards. "Mason, listen to me... Marcus is setting up a meeting with the syndicate guys. They gave me an ultimatum. They said if I didn't get your signature on the equity transfer for the Atlanta harbor project by midnight, they were going to start taking pieces of me."

"So you gave Marcus access to the VIP wing," I said, the horrific truth dawning on me. "You used your family pass to let him and his people onto this floor."

"I didn't know they were going to hurt Claire!" Julian sobbed, collapsing against the wall, dropping to his knees. "Swear to God, Mason! Marcus told me he just wanted to plant a listening device in your private lounge so he could get leverage for the board meeting tomorrow! He said nobody was going to get hurt!"

I looked down at my own brother—the boy I had paid tuition for, the boy I had protected from our father's debt collectors fifteen years ago—and realized that greed had completely rotted his soul.

"Take him down to the security office," I told the guards, my voice completely devoid of emotion. "Hand him over to the police when they arrive. If he tries to leave, break his legs."