Whitaker read in a level voice.
“If my daughter’s spouse attempts to access, transfer, conceal, poison, coerce, isolate, or accelerate her death for financial benefit, every discretionary asset previously available to him shall be revoked, and all evidence shall be forwarded to law enforcement.”
Nora’s gloved hand tightened around the evidence container.
Caleb said nothing.
His silence was uglier than any denial.
Rebecca watched him count the room. Doctor. Detective. Security. Attorney. Nora. Her.
No soft target left.
Dr. Harris’s pager vibrated once against his coat. He glanced at it, then at Detective Cole.
“The preliminary screen came back.”
Caleb’s face drained.
Rebecca heard the blood rush in her ears.
Dr. Harris did not look at Caleb when he spoke. He looked at Rebecca.
“We found a compound consistent with heavy-metal exposure. It explains the organ stress, the neuropathy, the nausea, the metallic taste.”
Rebecca closed her eyes for one second.
Metal.
The taste that had lived on her tongue for weeks.
The tea.
The basil plant.
The way Caleb had watched her drink every night.
When she opened her eyes, Caleb was staring at the sealed mug as if it had betrayed him.
Detective Cole stepped closer.
“Mr. Ward, we’re going to continue this conversation at the station.”
Caleb straightened.
“You have no idea what she’s done to me.”
Rebecca’s head turned slowly.
Even dying, even exposed, even surrounded, he still reached for injury as a costume.
“What did I do, Caleb?” she whispered.
His eyes snapped to her.
“You made me wait.”
The words came out quiet.
Not shouted.
Not dramatic.
That made them worse.
“You sat on money you didn’t earn,” he said. “You kept me asking for permission in a life that should have been mine.”
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