Chapter 3 - FOUR MONTHS UNTIL THEY OWNED EVERYTHING
The next morning, Martha found Maxwell furious.
Not loudly furious.
That would have been easier.
He sat beside the window in his study with the unsigned insurance documents resting on his lap.
“Dominic called me paranoid.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
Martha blinked.
He almost smiled.
“Being paranoid doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
Fair.
She closed the study door.
“Did you ask who drafted the eighteen-month clause?”
“Family counsel.”
“Whose counsel?”
His eyes narrowed.
“Good question.”
The documents named a firm in Boston.
Bell, Crowe & Mercer.
Martha recognized nothing.
Maxwell did.
“Dominic’s wife’s brother is a partner.”
Of course.
That did not make the document fraudulent.
It made independent review necessary.
“You need outside counsel.”
“I have counsel.”
“You have family counsel.”
“You think everyone around me is compromised?”
“No.”
She looked at his medication tray.
“I think you don’t know who isn’t.”
That silenced him.
Martha spent the afternoon doing what invisible employees do best.
Watching.
Celia Hart arrived at two.
Fiftyish.
Efficient.
No warmth.
She checked Maxwell’s blood pressure, pulse, catheter, skin integrity.
Then opened a locked medication cabinet.
Martha cleaned nearby.
Celia removed six pills.
The chart listed four.
Martha’s heartbeat accelerated.
Maybe two were vitamins.
Maybe PRN medication.
She waited.
Celia crushed everything together into applesauce.
That was odd.
Maxwell could swallow.
Why crush them?
“Mr. Rourke prefers it this way,” Celia said when she noticed Martha looking.
Maxwell did not look at her.
Interesting.
After Celia left, Martha entered.
“You prefer crushed medication?”
“No.”
“Why allow it?”
“Celia says some tablets absorb better.”
“Some should never be crushed.”
His face darkened.
He knew.
Then Martha asked:
“Do you feel sleepier after afternoon medication?”
“Yes.”
“How fast?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“How long?”
“Hours.”
“Any memory gaps?”
He hesitated.
“Sometimes.”
That frightened her.
The prescribed regimen could sedate him.
But this sounded excessive.
“We need the actual pills.”
“How?”
“Don’t swallow them tomorrow.”
His eyebrow rose.
“You want me to hide crushed applesauce in my mouth?”
She stared at him.
“You were a mafia boss and that’s your best idea?”
He almost laughed.
First time.
It changed his entire face.
“You have a better one?”
“Yes.”
She took an empty sterile specimen cup from the bathroom supply drawer.
“Distract Celia.”
The next day, Maxwell complained of nausea.
Celia set down the medication applesauce.
Martha entered with fresh towels.
Maxwell knocked over a water glass.
Celia turned.
Martha switched the bowl with an identical clean one hidden beneath the towels.
Simple.
Ridiculous.
Effective.
The medicated sample went into the specimen cup.
Martha did not test it herself.
Maxwell arranged through a private laboratory owned by someone outside Rhode Island.
No Rourke name.
No local connections.
Results came the following night.
Prescribed medications.
Plus one unlisted benzodiazepine.
And another compound Martha recognized immediately.
A powerful anticonvulsant sometimes used off-label for neuropathic symptoms.
At high doses, it could worsen sedation and coordination.
Neither appeared on Maxwell’s current chart.
“Could these stop movement?” he asked.
“Not magically.”
“But?”
“They could make weak recovery harder to demonstrate. Especially combined with everything else.”
Maxwell’s eyes went cold.
Then he asked:
“Who benefits if I look completely paralyzed?”
Martha thought of Dominic.
Cross.
Celia.
Maybe Delaney.
Then Maxwell’s phone buzzed.
A message from Dr. Cross:
I’ll come tomorrow for your injection. Dominic says you’ve been agitated.
Martha stared at the screen.
“Do not let him inject you.”
Maxwell looked at her.
“Why?”
“Because now we know someone is adding drugs.”
Silence.
Then he opened another message.
From Dominic.
Cross says Martha may be overstimulating you. We should consider replacing household staff.
May you like
Martha felt the floor disappear beneath her.
They had noticed her.
