Chapter 4 - The Doctor's Nervous Hands
Dr. Reeves swallowed hard. His hand moved toward his breast pocket, where his private smartphone was vibrating silently.
“It’s a standard pediatric bone-density compound, Antonio,” Reeves stammered, his eyes darting toward the double doors. “Given her prolonged immobility, the calcium prevents osteopenia. Any board-certified neurologist would prescribe the exact same regimen!”
“Marco,” I spoke without raising my voice.
The heavy library doors clicked open. Marco, my six-foot-four chief enforcer, stepped into the room with two tactical operators in black suits.
“Take Dr. Reeves’s medical bag,” I commanded. “And bring the current bottle of Isabella’s daily supplements from the medicine vault.”
Reeves took two steps backward, his back pressing against the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. “Antonio, this is outrageous! I have served your family for eight years! I treated your father! You cannot treat me like a common criminal based on the superstitious scribblings of a dead woman!”
Marco snatched the leather medical bag from Reeves’s shoulder and tipped the contents onto the marble table.
Out tumbled prescription pads, sterile syringes, diagnostic tools—and an unmarked amber glass dropper bottle containing a cloudy, viscous liquid.
Sophia stepped forward from the doorway, looking at the amber bottle. Her brow furrowed.
“That is concentrated jimsonweed extract,” Sophia said quietly, recognizing the sharp, bitter scent of the residue around the dropper rim. “My mother warned me about it. In microscopic doses, it blocks acetylcholine receptors at the neuromuscular junction without causing respiratory arrest. It keeps a child’s legs completely dead to sensory signals.”
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Reeves bolted for the French doors.
Before his hand touched the brass handle, Marco crossed the room in two strides, drove an elbow into Reeves’s solar plexus, and slammed him facedown onto the hardwood floor with crushing force.
