Chapter 3 - The Powder in the Chamomile Tea
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At 6:30 the following morning, the Corbin estate in the exclusive Buckhead district of Atlanta woke up to a grey, overcast sky.
The mansion was an imposing limestone fortress of twelve thousand square feet, surrounded by iron gates and manicured boxwood hedges. In the vast marble kitchen, Gertrude Corbin—Douglas’s thirty-six-year-old wife—stood by the polished quartz island wearing an emerald silk robe, stirring a porcelain teapot.
Gertrude was tall, thin, with sharp, bird-like features and bleached-blonde hair pulled into a tight bun. She was famous in Atlanta high society for her lavish charity galas and her cutting, venomous gossip.
“Good morning, Rebecca,” Gertrude said, not looking up as I entered the kitchen in my uniform. Her voice was dripping with condescending sweetness. “How was your first night with our patient?”
“Mr. Corbin slept through the night, Mrs. Corbin,” I replied smoothly, tying my apron. “His vitals were stable.”
“Good,” Gertrude said, setting down a silver spoon. “Garrett has always been very demanding. It takes a special kind of... submissive personality to handle him. His last two nurses barely lasted three weeks before they realized their place.”
She reached into the pocket of her robe, pulled out a small, amber plastic prescription bottle with no commercial pharmacy label, and tapped a fine white crystalline powder into the hot tea.
My pulse spiked, but my face remained an impassive mask of domestic obedience.
“What is that powder, ma'am?” I asked casually, picking up a tray of sliced fruit. “I need to update my nursing administration log for his medication reconciliation.”
Gertrude’s hand paused over the teapot for a fraction of a second. She turned her head, her thin lips curving into a tight, warning smile.
“It’s a specialized German neuro-sedative compound prescribed by Dr. Vance, Rebecca,” Gertrude purred, stirring the tea until the powder dissolved without a trace. “Garrett experiences severe central nervous system spasms if he doesn't take it twice daily. You don't need to log it. Dr. Vance manages his clinical chart personally. Your job is simply to make sure he drinks every single drop.”
She handed me the silver tray holding the steaming porcelain cup.
“Take it up to him immediately while it’s hot.”
“Right away, Mrs. Corbin.”
I carried the tray up the sweeping spiral staircase, past the surveillance cameras in the second-floor gallery, and entered Garrett’s master suite, closing the heavy double doors behind me.
Garrett was sitting in his wheelchair by the window, watching the morning mist rise from the lawn.
The moment the doors clicked shut, I walked directly into the adjoining bathroom, took a sterile plastic sample container from my medical bag, and used an eye dropper to transfer ten milliliters of the hot tea into the vial. Then I poured the rest of the poisoned liquid down the sink drain, running the cold faucet until the smell dissipated.
I returned to the bedroom, refilled the porcelain cup with hot water from the electric kettle, and dropped a fresh chamomile tea bag into the mug.
Garrett turned his chair around, watching my movements with a calm, approving nod.
“Did Gertrude prepare it personally?” he asked.
“She tapped the powder straight from her robe pocket,” I whispered, placing the fresh tea on his table and securing the plastic sample vial inside my medical kit. “She told me it was a German sedative for your spasms.”
Garrett let out a cold, humorless chuckle. “I haven't had a muscular spasm in three months.”
“I have a former colleague at Emory University’s clinical toxicology laboratory,” I said, zipping my bag. “I can have this compound run through high-resolution gas chromatography by noon.”
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“Do it,” Garrett commanded softly, his amber eyes flashing with lethal resolve. “And while you are at Emory, Rebecca, there is a secondary delivery I need you to collect from my private courier.”
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