Chapter 3 - THE PILLS IN NICHOLAS’S BEDROOM WERE NEVER PRESCRIBED TO HIM
Dr. Aaron Patel arrived at the estate at seven the next morning.
Nicholas had known him for twelve years.
First as the son of a restaurant owner Nicholas’s father once protected during an extortion dispute.
Later as a physician who refused every offer to become a “family doctor” in the criminal sense.
Aaron treated Nicholas because he was excellent.
Not because he was afraid.
That mattered.
He stood in the upstairs bedroom staring at the pill organizer Hannah had placed inside a clear food-storage container without touching it directly.
“This is dramatic.”
Nicholas looked at him.
“You came in forty minutes.”
“You said possible medication error.”
“I did not say poison.”
“You implied it like a Bond villain.”
Hannah almost smiled.
Aaron put on gloves.
One white tablet.
One blue.
He studied markings.
His expression changed.
“What?”
Nicholas asked.
“This blue pill isn’t yours.”
Silence.
“What is it?”
“A sedating antispasmodic.”
“Dangerous?”
“Not inherently.”
“Combined with what I already take?”
Aaron frowned.
“Could increase fatigue.”
“Dizziness.”
“Blood pressure problems.”
“Mental fog.”
Nicholas stared.
For the last two weeks, he had been sleeping twelve hours a day.
Missing therapy.
Losing focus during calls.
Once he nearly fell unconscious in the shower transfer.
Claire said rehabilitation was exhausting him.
Aaron had suggested reducing one legitimate medication.
But Nicholas’s symptoms persisted.
“Hannah.”
“Yes?”
“How many days?”
“Maybe twelve.”
Aaron looked at her.
“You’re sure?”
“I manage the organizer.”
“Until Claire took over.”
“Yes.”
The doctor’s face hardened.
“When?”
“About three weeks ago.”
Nicholas said:
“Test everything.”
Aaron nodded.
“Hospital lab.”
“No Vale facilities.”
Aaron looked offended.
“I was going to use Northwestern.”
“Good.”
Then Nicholas called Samuel.
“Do you have the access logs?”
“Working on them.”
“Speed.”
“Understood.”
Then Frankie.
“Find out where Michael slept the last thirty nights.”
Frankie paused.
“You want me to—”
“Public records.”
“Drivers.”
“Security logs.”
“No one touches him.”
“No intimidation.”
That surprised Frankie.
“Nicholas.”
“You heard me.”
“Yes.”
Eight months earlier, Nicholas would have sent men.
Now he wanted records.
Hannah noticed.
She said nothing.
By noon, Claire had moved into the Four Seasons.
She sent Nicholas seventeen messages.
He read three.
You humiliated me in front of everyone.
Michael was trying to keep the organization alive.
You are letting some employee poison you against the people who love you.
Nicholas stared at the last one.
Some employee.
He handed the phone to Hannah.
She read it.
Then gave it back.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Don’t fire her for calling me that.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were thinking something dramatic.”
“I am always thinking something dramatic.”
“True.”
He deleted nothing.
At 1:15, Samuel arrived with preliminary access records.
The warehouse-option clause had been inserted six days earlier.
User account:
Michael Rourke.
No surprise.
More important:
Nicholas’s digital signature had been attached to two preliminary authorizations while he was supposedly medically unavailable.
“I never signed these.”
Samuel looked sick.
“They use the certificate on your office workstation.”
“Who had access?”
“Claire.”
“Michael.”
“Me.”
“Your attorney.”
“Administrative security.”
“Logs?”
Samuel passed another page.
The workstation had been accessed at 1:42 a.m. eleven days earlier.
Badge entry into Nicholas’s office at 1:38.
Claire Beaumont.
Nicholas stared.
“Camera?”
“Internal camera was disabled.”
“By?”
“Security override.”
“Whose?”
Samuel hesitated.
“Michael.”
There.
Not proof of romance.
Not proof of attempted murder.
Proof they worked together to use Nicholas’s credentials.
Enough.
“Freeze my certificate.”
“Already done.”
“Replace all signing authorization.”
“Yes.”
“Outside auditor?”
“Started.”
Nicholas looked up.
“Samuel.”
The CFO met his gaze.
“If you knew about any of this—”
“I didn’t.”
“Then prove it by helping them find everything.”
Samuel nodded.
No offense.
Good.
At four, Dr. Patel called.
The blue tablets were exactly what he suspected.
Not lethal.
But absolutely unauthorized.
At the dosage Nicholas likely received, they could worsen fatigue, blood-pressure instability, confusion, and weakness.
Could someone have intended to kill him?
No evidence.
Could someone have intended to make him appear less capable?
Possibly.
That word entered Nicholas’s mind and stayed.
Incapacity.
Claire had repeatedly told executives Nicholas could not handle meetings.
She took over medication.
He became foggier.
Then incapacity language appeared.
Coincidence?
Maybe.
He refused to decide before proof.
“Hannah.”
She appeared in the doorway.
“Yes?”
“Who had access to the medication?”
“Me.”
“Claire.”
“Night nurse.”
“Physical therapist if needed, but they never filled it.”
“Any household staff?”
“The cabinet wasn’t locked.”
Nicholas frowned.
“Why?”
“You threw the key away.”
He remembered.
Four months earlier, after a nurse locked his pain medication, Nicholas became furious.
“This is my house.”
He had insisted.
Of course.
His own pride created access.
“Find the night nurse.”
“She’s on tonight.”
“Good.”
No threats.
Questions.
At six, a security analyst found hallway footage.
Claire entering the medication room.
Normal.
Then Michael, one hour later.
Not normal.
He was never part of Nicholas’s medical routine.
The video showed him leaving with something small in his hand.
Nicholas watched twice.
“What date?”
“Twelve days ago.”
The same night Hannah noticed the pill change.
His hands tightened.
“Bring me Claire’s visitor logs.”
By midnight, the shape became clearer.
Michael had visited Claire privately at least nine times during the previous two months.
Three visits after midnight.
Drivers confirmed Claire had also gone to Michael’s Gold Coast condo twice.
Nicholas sat in his office downstairs now.
His office.
Wheelchair behind the desk.
Hannah brought coffee.
“Black.”
He took it.
“Thank you.”
“You should eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“That has never impressed me.”
He looked up.
“Have you always been this irritating?”
“Yes.”
She placed a sandwich in front of him.
Then turned to leave.
“Hannah.”
She looked back.
“Sit.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“Why?”
“I need a civilian opinion.”
“You don’t know many civilians?”
“Not anymore.”
She sat across.
Nicholas told her about the access logs.
The late visits.
The medication.
Not every criminal-business detail.
Enough.
When he finished:
“What do you think?”
Hannah thought.
“I think Claire and Michael are having an affair.”
Direct.
Nicholas almost laughed.
“Based on?”
“Common sense.”
“Useful.”
“I think they wanted you out of business decisions.”
“Yes.”
“I think they may have used medication to make you easier to isolate.”
His face hardened.
“May.”
“May.”
She leaned forward.
“But I don’t know if they wanted you dead.”
Nicholas looked toward the dark windows.
“The title of my life remains disappointing.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She continued.
“If you jump from drugging to murder because it fits how angry you feel, you’ll miss what actually happened.”
Nicholas stared.
“You really are comfortable talking to me this way.”
“I get paid every Friday.”
“That explains courage?”
“Health insurance too.”
He smiled.
Then stopped.
“Claire laughed downstairs with him.”
Hannah said nothing.
“I could hear them.”
Still nothing.
“For eight months I thought she was grieving the man I used to be.”
He looked at his hands.
“Maybe she was waiting for that man to stay gone.”
Hannah’s expression softened.
Nicholas hated softness.
But hers did not feel like pity.
“What if she never loved me?”
Hannah looked surprised.
“Why would that be easier?”
“What?”
“If she never loved you, then none of this is complicated.”
Nicholas stared.
“She probably did.”
“Maybe still does in some terrible broken way.”
“People hurt people they love all the time.”
“Not helpful.”
“I’m not trying to be.”
He laughed bitterly.
Then Hannah said:
“You keep asking whether the chair changed how she saw you.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe the chair didn’t change her.”
“Maybe it removed what she liked most about being with you.”
Nicholas frowned.
“What?”
“Power.”
There.
Claire loved the clubs.
Political dinners.
People moving aside when Nicholas entered.
She loved being the future Mrs. Vale.
Loved the security.
The house.
The private entrances.
The fear people confused with respect.
When Nicholas stopped entering rooms, maybe Claire stopped receiving what she actually wanted.
His stomach turned.
“You think she loved the position.”
“I don’t know.”
Hannah stood.
“But I know she looked embarrassed when you needed help.”
“That is not love I would trust.”
Then she left.
At 2:17 the next morning, Michael called.
Nicholas answered.
“You’re awake.”
“Yes.”
“We need to talk.”
“We do.”
“Alone.”
“No.”
Silence.
“Nick.”
“You lost the right to define the room.”
Michael’s voice cooled.
“This is bigger than Claire.”
“I assumed.”
“The western warehouses are bleeding money.”
“False.”
“Samuel doesn’t know everything.”
“Then you’ll enjoy presenting documents tomorrow.”
Silence.
Then Michael said:
“You don’t understand what happened after you got shot.”
Nicholas became still.
“What does that mean?”
Another silence.
“You want the truth?”
“Yes.”
“Then ask Frankie who changed your warehouse route that night.”
The line went dead.
Nicholas stared at the phone.
Eight months earlier, he had been shot outside Warehouse 14.
The visit had not been on his original schedule.
The route changed two hours before departure.
Only four people knew.
Nicholas.
Frankie.
Michael.
Claire.
Nicholas pressed Frankie’s number.
His oldest lieutenant answered on the first ring.
“Boss?”
“Come to the house.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
Then Nicholas looked toward the staircase.
For the first time, the medication no longer felt like the most dangerous secret in his home.
Someone had changed his route before the shooting.
May you like
Michael knew.
And he wanted Nicholas looking at Frankie.
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