Chapter 1 - THE MAN WHO KNEW ABOUT THE GLASS
At 9:03 on Saturday night, Rafael Corbin collapsed beside his wineglass.
One second, he was listening to Vincent Moretti across a white-clothed table in Bello Rosso’s private dining room.
The next, he touched his lips, stared at his fingers, and hit the floor.
I saw it through the kitchen pass.
My hands were buried in dishwater.
But I knew the sequence.
Numb lips.
Tingling fingers.
Sudden weakness.
I ripped off my gloves.
“Nell!” the sous-chef shouted.
I pushed into the dining room.
Six men turned toward me.
Damon Reed raised a pistol.
“Back in the kitchen.”
“I’m a clinical toxicologist.”
Nobody moved.
“That man has been poisoned. Lower the gun or watch him die.”
Vincent looked me over.
Stained apron.
Black work shoes.
Forty-two-year-old woman nobody at that table had bothered learning anything about.
“You wash dishes.”
“I also know why his mouth went numb.”
I knelt near Rafael.
“Your fingertips tingling?”
His hand flexed.
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“Aconitine exposure is possible.”
Rafael’s pulse was dangerously irregular.
I told someone to call 911 and warned them to tell emergency personnel this might be toxin-related rather than an ordinary cardiac collapse.
Then Vincent grabbed my shoulder.
“You said aconitine.”
“Yes.”
His grip tightened.
“We never told anyone what was in his glass.”
I stopped.
I had diagnosed Rafael from symptoms.
I had never said the poison came from the wine.
Behind me, Damon returned from the kitchen.
The dining-room lock clicked.
Vincent said:
“Nobody leaves.”
Two guns shifted toward me.
Rafael convulsed.
I kept him from striking the floor.
Then I saw Vincent glance at the half-empty wineglass.
Once.
Too quickly.
“Damon.”
He looked at me.
“Don’t let him touch that glass.”
Vincent went pale.
Then lunged.
A chair overturned.
Damon caught his arm.
The wineglass tipped.
I grabbed the stem before it fell.
Vincent fought harder.
“Let it go!”
That was the wrong thing to say.
Damon slammed him against the table.
I held the glass away from everyone.
Rafael dragged in another shallow breath.
Vincent stopped struggling.
And suddenly looked terrified rather than guilty.
Not of Damon.
Not of Rafael.
Of his own phone vibrating inside his jacket.
The screen lit long enough for me to see one line.
TOUCH THAT GLASS AGAIN AND AVA DIES.
Vincent closed his eyes.
May you like
The first man who looked like Rafael’s poisoner might not have been trying to protect himself.
He might have been trying to protect someone else.
