Chapter 2 - The Syringe
Grant didn't chase Selena.
He couldn't.
After three steps, his knees buckled.
He caught the sofa and lowered himself before falling.
Emma rushed toward him.
“Dad!”
“I’m okay.”
He wasn't.
His legs burned.
Not dead.
Not numb.
Burned.
That frightened him more.
For twelve years doctors had described his condition as an incomplete spinal-cord injury complicated by progressive motor dysfunction after a highway crash.
Grant had retained sensation.
Tiny involuntary movements sometimes.
Never functional standing.
Never this.
Police arrived.
So did paramedics.
Emma was examined immediately.
The syringe had penetrated skin but contained only trace residue.
No immediate dangerous symptoms.
The discarded syringe and vial were collected.
Selena was found downstairs trying to leave through private garage.
Grant expected her to deny everything.
Instead she said:
“I was trying to help Emma.”
With what?
She refused until attorney arrived.
Then another problem.
The vial Emma had handed Grant was not the vial police collected.
Grant stared at evidence bag.
Blue cap.
Same size.
But handwritten marking:
S-8.
Not G.H.-12.
Two vials.
One belonged near syringe.
One had been hidden beneath sofa.
Emma knew.
Grant waited until they were alone.
“Where did you get G.H.-12?”
Emma looked down.
“Mom’s room.”
Grant’s breath stopped.
Emma’s mother, Rachel, had died eleven months earlier.
Her bedroom remained mostly untouched.
“Where?”
“In the little wooden box.”
Grant knew box.
Rachel kept jewelry there.
“Why were you looking?”
“I wasn't.”
Emma said lid had been open.
Inside was vial and note.
“What note?”
Emma reached into dress pocket.
Grant unfolded tiny paper.
Rachel’s handwriting.
If Selena ever brings a syringe into this house, give this to your father.
Grant read twice.
Then looked at daughter.
“Did you put something in me?”
“No.”
“Did you put this in my food?”
“No.”
“Did you inject me?”
Emma looked offended.
“No.”
Then why smile?
“Because Mom was right.”
“About what?”
Emma pointed toward his legs.
“That you weren't broken.”
Grant’s throat tightened.
Rachel knew he could stand?
Impossible.
Then he read back of note.
May you like
Three more words:
Don’t trust recovery.
