Chapter 2 - The Silver Pillbox
“Did they say anything about the wedding itself?” Detective Vega asked, her pen pausing over a yellow notepad.
Evelyn shook her head, the cheap fluorescent lights of the precinct buzzing above her. “Only that Grant would update his estate after they were married. And that they had to wait long enough for the insurance policy to activate.”
Vega sighed, a heavy, tired sound that made Evelyn’s stomach tighten. The detective set her pen down and folded her hands. “Evelyn, I believe you. I really do. The way you’re shaking right now, you can’t fake that. But belief isn’t evidence. You heard a conversation through a closed door. You don’t know the man’s name. You don’t know what was in the vial. If I take this to a judge to get a warrant for the Mercer estate, I’ll be laughed out of the courtroom. And Sloane Halbrook’s lawyers will destroy you.”
“So I just let him die?” Evelyn whispered, her voice cracking.
“No,” Vega said gently. “You keep your eyes open. If they are planning something, there will be a paper trail. A bank transfer. A medical record. You find me a name, or a physical object that proves intent, and I will tear that mansion apart. But until then, you have to go back and pretend you heard nothing.”
The drive back to the estate felt like moving underwater. Evelyn parked her battered sedan near the servant’s entrance, her hands gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. She needed evidence. But how could a maid outsmart a woman who had spent her entire life manipulating everyone around her?
Her duties that afternoon included cleaning the late Arthur Mercer’s private library. It was a room Grant rarely entered since his father’s sudden passing two years ago. The air inside always smelled of aged leather and lemon polish.
Evelyn moved mechanically, dusting the mahogany bookshelves and the heavy brass lamps. Her mind raced, replaying the conversation from the study. His father died from heart failure. That helps.
Why would that help? Unless... the poison was designed to mimic the exact same condition.
Evelyn stopped dusting. She stared at Arthur Mercer’s massive desk. If Grant’s father had died of heart failure, he would have been on medication. He would have had a doctor.
She pulled open the bottom drawer of the desk. It was filled with old sympathy cards and forgotten stationery. She dug deeper, her fingers brushing against something cold and heavy in the back corner.
Evelyn pulled it out. It was a small, sterling silver pillbox, intricately engraved with the initials A.M.
She pressed the tiny latch. The box popped open. It was empty, save for a thin coating of white powder clinging to the silver corners. But that wasn’t what made Evelyn’s heart stop.
Tucked neatly beneath the pillbox was a folded, yellowed prescription receipt. Evelyn carefully unfolded it. The medication listed was a powerful, highly restricted beta-blocker. And the prescribing physician’s signature at the bottom made her breath catch in her throat.
Dr. Vance Sterling.
She recognized the name. He was a prominent cardiologist in Boston. But more importantly, Evelyn recognized the logo on the top of the receipt. It matched the small insignia she had seen embossed on the black medical bag the silver-haired man had carried into the study.
The man with Sloane wasn’t just a hitman. He was Grant’s father’s doctor.
Which meant they hadn’t just chosen a poison that looked like heart failure. They had done this before. Dr. Sterling had murdered Grant’s father to pave the way for Grant to inherit the fortune, setting the stage for Sloane to swoop in and take it all.
Evelyn pulled out her phone, her hands trembling violently, and snapped three clear photos of the receipt and the pillbox. This was it. This was the connection Detective Vega needed.
She raised the pillbox to her nose, wondering if the white powder had a scent.
Instead of medication, she smelled something floral. Sweet, expensive, and unmistakable.
Jasmine and white lily.
It was Sloane’s custom perfume. Sloane had handled this pillbox.
“You’re out of your assigned zone, Evelyn.”
Evelyn whipped around, nearly dropping the silver box.
Grant stood in the doorway of the library. He wasn’t wearing his usual tailored suit. He wore a loose gray sweater, and his skin was terrifyingly pale. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes, and a fine sheen of sweat coated his forehead. He leaned heavily against the doorframe, pressing one hand tightly against the center of his chest.
He didn’t look like a billionaire. He looked like a man who was dying.
Evelyn gasped, rushing forward. “Mr. Mercer! Are you alright? You look terrible.”
“Just… a little chest pain,” Grant muttered, his breathing shallow. “Probably just stress from the wedding. Have you seen Sloane?”
May you like
Evelyn’s blood turned to ice. No mistakes, the doctor had said. Small amounts. Never enough to raise immediate suspicion.
They weren’t waiting for the wedding. The wedding was just the finish line. The poisoning had already begun.
