Chapter 4 - I CHOSE NOT TO DIE QUIETLY
On the second morning, Daniel brought in an outside physician.
Her name was Dr. Priya Shah, a cardiologist and toxicology specialist from Northwestern, brilliant enough that Daniel had once used her in a corporate negligence case. She reviewed my chart in total silence, then asked every nurse on the floor when my symptoms had begun, how my medications had been adjusted, and who had approved the changes.
At last she came to my bedside.
“Mr. Mercer, I’m going to be blunt.”
“Please.”
“Your chart says progressive heart failure. It does not explain why your digoxin levels have fluctuated in such a strange pattern.”
I looked at Nora.
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” Dr. Shah said, “that oral dosing alone may not explain the extent of the damage I’m seeing. I want new labs drawn under direct observation. I also want all outside medications held and your IV administration history preserved immediately.”
Oral dosing alone.
That sentence sat in my mind like a nail.
Victoria had bragged about the supplements, but something in Dr. Shah’s expression told me the story might be larger.
The antidote protocol began that afternoon. It wasn’t magic. It was slow, exhausting, and miserable. My vision swam. My heart pounded strangely. I vomited once and nearly blacked out twice.
But by evening, I was still alive.
Victoria visited again.
This time she wore pale blue and carried homemade broth in a thermos she wanted the nurse to warm for me. It was almost laughable.
Nora intercepted it at the door.
“Mrs. Mercer,” she said pleasantly, “we’ll need to send that through testing if you want it served.”
Victoria blinked. “Testing?”
“Given your husband’s medical complications, yes.”
Something ugly flashed across her face before she caught it.
When she turned to me, the sweetness was thinner.
“I’m trying to take care of him.”
Nora didn’t answer.
After Victoria left, Lucas adjusted my blankets and tried not to look emotional.
“Your sister,” I said. “How is she?”
He swallowed. “Same. Chloe’s on the surgical list, but without funding she’ll never get near the operating room.”
“How old was she when your parents died?”
He looked surprised. “Nine. Why?”
“Because people who start protecting family that young usually stop expecting anyone to protect them.”
He let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh.
“You figured that out from me folding blankets?”
“No,” I said. “From your face every time someone says it’ll all work out.”
He looked away then.
That was the moment I understood why I trusted him.
Not because he was cheerful.
Because he wasn’t.
He had suffered enough not to fake hope.
By nightfall, Daniel called from Milwaukee again.
He had frozen all pending company transfers under the authority of my signed codicil. Raymond was furious. He had demanded an emergency explanation.
May you like
Daniel’s answer had been simple:
“Jonathan Mercer is not dead yet.”
