Chapter 1 - FIVE DAYS LEFT
“Your time is almost up, Arthur.”
Vanessa’s voice was so soft that anyone outside the hospital room might have mistaken it for tenderness.
Arthur Vance kept his eyes nearly closed.
Rain streaked the windows of St. Catherine Medical Center in downtown Chicago. The monitor beside his bed clicked and chirped through an irregular rhythm that had frightened three cardiologists and exhausted every explanation they had offered him.
Heart failure.
Electrical instability.
Rapid deterioration.
Earlier that morning, Arthur had heard Dr. Samuel Levin speaking with another physician outside the partially closed door.
“At this rate, days,” Levin had said. “Five, maybe less.”
Arthur was fifty-six.
He had spent thirty-two years building Vance Contract Furnishings from a rented Milwaukee warehouse into one of the largest privately held commercial furniture manufacturers in the Midwest.
Factories in Wisconsin and Indiana.
Distribution contracts with hotels, universities, hospitals, and corporate campuses.
Commercial real estate in Chicago.
An estate in Naperville.
Investment accounts.
Private equity holdings.
Estimated net worth, depending on the month and the valuation method, somewhere around eighty-two million dollars.
He had also spent four years married to Vanessa.
She leaned closer.
Her perfume reached him before her face did.
Gardenia.
Arthur had once loved it.
Now it made him nauseated.
“I’m exhausted pretending to be your devoted wife.”
His eyes remained barely open.
Vanessa smiled.
The expression bore no resemblance to the woman who cried beside his bed when doctors said his heart was failing.
“Julian and I have been patient.”
Arthur’s chest tightened.
Julian Mercer.
His chief financial officer.
His friend for twenty-one years.
The man who had stood beside Arthur when the first Vance factory nearly went bankrupt during the recession.
The man who toasted at Arthur and Vanessa’s wedding.
Vanessa’s fingers moved across the blanket.
“You never suspected us.”
Arthur made himself breathe slowly.
“Did you?”
He let his eyelids tremble.
Vanessa laughed.
“You still don’t understand.”
She leaned so close her hair touched the pillow.
“The digoxin worked beautifully.”
Arthur heard the word.
Stored it.
“Tiny amounts,” she whispered. “Not enough to make anybody panic. Then a little more. Then a little more.”
His pulse jumped.
The monitor reacted.
Vanessa glanced toward it.
“Easy.”
She rested one hand over his chest.
“Don’t die before I finish.”
Arthur wanted to grab her wrist.
He could barely raise his hand.
“The vitamins,” she said. “Every night after dinner.”
His mind flashed backward.
White capsules.
Vanessa placing them beside his water.
For your heart.
For your energy.
Your doctor said you need magnesium.
Sometimes she changed the explanation.
Arthur had stopped asking.
“You trusted me.”
Her smile softened.
“That really was your problem.”
Arthur tried to speak.
Only air came.
Vanessa bent lower.
“When you’re gone, the houses, the investments, the company proceeds—everything comes to me.”
She kissed his forehead.
“And Julian and I can finally stop hiding.”
Arthur looked at her.
Vanessa seemed almost disappointed that he could not respond.
“We found a place in Malibu.”
She smiled again.
“Glass walls. Ocean view.”
His eyes burned.
Not because of the house.
Because two months earlier Vanessa had sat with him on the back terrace in Naperville and asked whether they should renew their vows in Hawaii.
He had said yes.
She checked her phone.
“I should go.”
Arthur’s fingers moved beneath the sheet.
Vanessa noticed.
“What?”
He forced out one word.
“Why?”
She tilted her head.
“Why what?”
“Me.”
For a moment, something almost human crossed her face.
Then it vanished.
“Because you were never going to leave gracefully.”
She picked up her purse.
“You built everything around yourself.”
Arthur watched her.
Vanessa reached the door.
Then turned.
“Oh.”
Her expression brightened.
“Julian says the funeral should be private. Less press.”
Arthur closed his eyes.
She left.
The latch clicked.
For almost a minute, he did not move.
Then tears ran into his ears.
Arthur was not afraid of death.
Not in that moment.
He was afraid that he had spent four years sleeping beside somebody who knew exactly how much medication it took to make a dying man look naturally sick.
The door opened again.
Arthur froze.
A young man entered pushing a linen cart.
Caleb Miller.
Twenty-five.
Patient transporter at St. Catherine’s.
Arthur knew his name because Caleb had moved him between cardiology, imaging, and intensive care twice that week.
He always spoke to Arthur rather than around him.
“Evening, Mr. Vance.”
Caleb adjusted the blanket.
“Need water?”
Arthur looked toward the door.
Then at Caleb.
“Come closer.”
Caleb frowned.
“Sir?”
“Closer.”
He did.
Arthur whispered, “Phone.”
“Your phone?”
Arthur nodded.
It sat inside the bedside drawer.
Caleb handed it to him.
Arthur’s fingers were so weak he needed three tries to unlock it.
He opened his contacts.
REBECCA SLOAN.
Attorney.
General counsel.
Trustee adviser.
The person Arthur had known since they were both broke enough to split restaurant checks down to the dollar.
“Call.”
Caleb looked uncomfortable.
“Mr. Vance, is this about your care?”
“No.”
Arthur swallowed.
“My wife.”
Caleb glanced toward the hallway.
“What about her?”
“She’s poisoning me.”
The young man stared.
Arthur waited for disbelief.
Instead Caleb asked:
“Do you want me to get your nurse?”
“Yes.”
“Police?”
Arthur closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
Caleb immediately reached for the call button.
Arthur caught his sleeve.
“One more.”
“What?”
“Rebecca.”
Caleb nodded.
He dialed.
Rebecca Sloan answered on the third ring.
“Arthur?”
Caleb held the phone beside him.
Arthur whispered:
“Come tonight.”
Rebecca’s voice changed.
“What happened?”
Arthur looked toward the closed door.
Then said:
“Bring the trust.”
Silence.
“The whole trust?”
“No.”
Arthur took a breath that burned.
“The amendment we discussed.”
Rebecca went quiet.
Three months earlier, after an argument with Vanessa about estate planning, Arthur had asked Rebecca to draft an alternative successor-trustee arrangement.
He had never signed it.
He had told himself Vanessa would think he did not trust her.
He had been right.
He had simply misunderstood which of them deserved the distrust.
Rebecca said, “Arthur, are you competent to review and execute documents?”
“Yes.”
“Is there a physician who can attest you’re oriented?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m coming.”
Caleb handed the phone back.
Arthur caught his wrist.
“Thank you.”
“You should’ve called the nurse first.”
Arthur managed the weakest smile of his life.
“That’s why I trusted you.”
Caleb looked confused.
Arthur said:
“You did.”
Twenty minutes later, Dr. Levin stood beside the bed.
Arthur told him everything.
Not the fortune.
Not Malibu.
The vitamins.
Digoxin.
Months.
Dr. Levin did not say Vanessa was lying.
He did not say Arthur was hallucinating.
He ordered blood.
Then more blood.
An ECG.
Electrolytes.
Kidney testing.
Toxicology consultation.
Arthur watched medical staff move with a new kind of urgency.
At 11:14 p.m., Dr. Levin returned.
His face had changed.
“Arthur.”
Arthur looked at him.
“Your serum digoxin concentration is extremely elevated.”
Arthur closed his eyes.
Levin continued.
“There’s a problem.”
“What?”
“You have never been prescribed digoxin by this hospital, your cardiologist, or your pharmacy record.”
Arthur stared.
Dr. Levin pulled a chair closer.
“And the pattern in your older bloodwork suggests tonight may not be the first exposure.”
Arthur’s heartbeat stuttered on the monitor.
“How long?”
“We don’t know.”
The door opened behind Levin.
Rebecca Sloan entered carrying a leather portfolio.
She looked from Arthur to the physician.
Then to the bloodwork on the screen.
“What did you find?”
Dr. Levin answered:
“Enough that I’m calling poison control and our medical toxicologist.”
Rebecca slowly opened her portfolio.
Inside was the unsigned trust amendment Arthur had requested months earlier.
She placed it on the table.
Arthur looked at the signature line.
Then Dr. Levin’s phone rang.
He answered.
Listened.
His expression hardened.
“What?”
Arthur whispered.
Levin looked directly at him.
“Your archived blood samples from six weeks ago have been located.”
Arthur stopped breathing.
“They’re testing them now.”
Rebecca sat beside him.
“If those samples contain digoxin too,” she said, “this didn’t start tonight.”
May you like
Arthur looked toward the door Vanessa had walked through.
The woman who believed he had five days left had no idea that one of those days had just become evidence.
