Chapter 2 - The Paper Trail of Devotion
The hospital room smelled of pine disinfectant and synthetic lemon.
I lay under two thin white blankets, the fluorescent light above the bed buzzing with a high, steady pitch that made the back of my head throb. My left side was wrapped tightly in elastic bandages. The doctor—a young woman with tired eyes named Dr. Vance—had shown me the X-rays an hour ago. Two cracked ribs on the left lower quadrant, severe deep-tissue contusions, and a hairline fracture near the crest of my pelvis.
"They're going to stay in custody until the arraignment on Monday," Deputy Miller said, sitting on the small vinyl stool beside my bed. He had his notebook open, his pen hovering over a page covered in dense, blue scribbles. "The prosecutor is looking at third-degree assault, domestic abuse, and false imprisonment. But Mrs. Ward... we need to talk about what we found on the tablet."
I shifted slowly, pain shooting down my side like a hot wire. "The tablet?"
"The iPad in the kitchen," Miller said. He reached into his leather jacket and pulled out a clear plastic evidence bag containing a printout of emails and digital spreadsheets. "Your daughter wasn't just using an app. She was in direct communication with an entity called Aethelgard Performance Group. They're based out of a PO Box in Delaware, but the servers they use are routed through Saint Kitts."
He laid three sheets of paper on my tray table.
The first page was a contract, dated six weeks ago—four days after Arthur’s funeral.
It bore Chloe’s signature at the bottom, alongside a digital stamp that read APPROVED - LEVEL 3 PARTICIPANT.
"Read section four," Miller said softly.
I pulled my reading glasses down from my hair and focused on the small, dense type:
Participant agrees to provide twice-weekly video documentation demonstrating the efficacy of the Aethelgard Somatic Reduction Protocol. In the event of non-responsiveness or physiological resistance in the subject, Participant is authorized to apply mechanical stimulation using the designated percussion apparatus to induce localized cellular activity. Subject must remain unmedicated by conventional pharmaceuticals to ensure data integrity for the public broadcast on November 12th.
Compensation: Initial Retainer: $10,000 (Paid upon signing) Milestone 1 (Visual inflammation confirmed): $25,000 Milestone 2 (Live protocol execution): $100,000
My breath hitched in my chest. One hundred thousand dollars.
"They sold me," I whispered.
"They leased you," Miller corrected grimly. "This company... they run these private streams on dark-web wellness forums. People pay five hundred dollars a seat to watch these 'miracle cures' performed live. Most of the audience are people who think modern medicine is a conspiracy, or people who... well, people who just like watching older people suffer under the guise of alternative therapy."
"And Mark?" I asked, my voice barely audible. "Did Mark know about the money?"
"Mark’s bank account shows a ten-thousand-dollar transfer three weeks ago," Miller said. "He used it to pay off the arrears on his sports bar loan. He knew, Mrs. Ward. He might have felt bad about it toward the end, but he took the money."
The door to the room opened, and Dr. Vance stepped inside carrying a small plastic tray with two orange prescription bottles.
"Deputy," she said, nodding to Miller. "I need to clear the room for a few minutes. Mrs. Ward needs her second dose of pain medication, and the social worker from Adult Protective Services is downstairs."
Miller stood up, snapping his notebook shut. "I’ll be in the hallway, Mrs. Ward. We’ve already placed a temporary restraining order on both of them. Even if they make bail on Monday, they can’t come within five hundred feet of your house or this hospital."
"Thank you, Deputy," I said.
When he was gone, Dr. Vance set the pills on my table along with a small cup of water. She didn't offer me the usual professional smile. Her expression was solemn, her eyes fixed on the thick purple bruising that crept up the side of my neck where the stick had clipped me.
"Mrs. Ward," she said quietly. "There’s something else. We ran a full blood panel when you came in through the ER. Standard procedure for trauma cases."
"Did... is something wrong with my liver?" I asked, remembering the strange brown tea Chloe had insisted I drink every morning with my oatmeal.
"Your liver functions are elevated, yes," Dr. Vance said, pulling a folding chair up to the side of the bed. "But that’s not what I’m concerned about. We found traces of a compound called lithium carbonate in your bloodstream. High levels of it. Enough that your levels were approaching toxic toxicity."
I stared at her. "Lithium? Like... the psychiatric medication?"
"Yes. Have you ever been prescribed lithium?"
"No," I said. "Never. Arthur took blood pressure pills, and I take a mild hormone replacement, but that’s all."
"Someone has been grinding it into your food," Dr. Vance said directly. "Probably for at least three or four weeks. Lithium at those levels causes confusion, severe lethargy, memory lapses, and a lack of muscular coordination. It makes a person look like they're developing dementia. It makes them compliant."
The brown tea. The tea that Chloe always brought me in the ceramic mug Arthur had given me for our anniversary—the mug with the thick, dark walls that hid the sediment at the bottom.
Every morning, she had stood over me, watching until I swallowed the last drop.
"She told me it was dandelion root," I whispered, my fingers digging into the thin cotton sheet until my knuckles turned white. "She said it would help with the water retention."
"I've already updated the police report," Dr. Vance said, her hand reaching out to touch my arm gently. "This moves it from third-degree assault to premeditated poisoning. They aren't going to get bail on Monday, Mrs. Ward. The prosecutor is going to ask for high-risk detention without bond."
I looked out the window. The sky over Minneapolis was grey and heavy with snow that hadn't yet fallen. Below, in the parking lot, the red lights of an arriving ambulance flashed silently against the pavement.
"I want to go home," I said.
May you like
Dr. Vance frowned. "Mrs. Ward, your ribs—"
"I want to go home today," I repeated, turning to face her. "If they are in jail, my house is empty. I want to be in my house."
