Chapter 8 - The Body in the Trunk
Jason’s passport was inside the dead man’s coat.
His wallet was in the pocket.
His wedding ring was on the left hand.
But the body was not Jason.
Dental records confirmed it six hours later.
The man had been dead for at least two days.
His face had been damaged beyond recognition.
His fingertips had been burned.
Someone wanted police to identify him as Jason.
The plan failed because the body had an old surgical plate in the jaw.
Jason had never broken his jaw.
The dead man was identified as Aaron Pike.
A private investigator.
Margaret had paid him three times during the past year.
The final payment was made the morning before the Europe trip.
“What was he investigating?” I asked.
“Your father,” Laura said.
Aaron had accessed death records.
Property records.
Old police reports.
He had visited the storage facility holding my father’s files.
He had also contacted a retired mechanic who inspected my father’s car after the crash.
The mechanic died six days before Aaron.
Natural causes, according to the first report.
Laura was no longer convinced.
Aaron’s office had been emptied.
His computer was missing.
His assistant said he had become frightened.
Two days before his death, he told her:
The family is cleaning up old mistakes.
Sophie stayed in a protected hotel.
Robert remained under surveillance.
I was moved again.
This time, the police placed me in a small furnished house outside the city.
Laura visited every day.
On the third night, she brought Dr. Patel.
My doctor looked exhausted.
She carried a thick medical folder.
“I reviewed your test history,” she said.
“What did you find?”
“Something I should have noticed earlier.”
Laura closed the curtains.
Dr. Patel sat across from me.
“Your condition is real.”
“I know.”
“But the pattern is unusual.”
“What does that mean?”
“You improved during hospital stays.”
“Then worsened after returning home.”
“Because I was stressed?”
“That is what we assumed.”
“But?”
“But your bloodwork suggests repeated exposure to something that intensified the autoimmune response.”
I stared at her.
“What kind of exposure?”
“A medication or chemical compound.”
“Poison?”
“Not exactly.”
“But someone could have been making me sicker?”
Dr. Patel looked ashamed.
“Yes.”
My hands went cold.
“How?”
“It could have been added to food.”
“Tea?”
She looked at me.
“Possibly.”
I remembered Jason bringing me tea every morning.
The same porcelain cup.
The same gentle smile.
“How long?”
“We cannot know without testing samples.”
“The house is sealed.”
“Police collected the tea leaves.”
Laura opened a folder.
“The laboratory found traces of an immunostimulant in the container.”
My breathing stopped.
“It would not kill a healthy person,” Dr. Patel said.
“But in someone with your condition, repeated exposure could trigger severe flares.”
“He made me sick.”
No one answered.
“He made me sick so he could call me helpless.”
Laura’s jaw tightened.
“We believe Jason began adding it to your tea months ago.”
I thought about every morning.
Every cup.
Every time he sat beside me and asked whether I felt worse.
Every appointment where he spoke for me.
Every night he filled my pill organizer.
Then another memory returned.
One morning, Sophie had taken my cup by mistake.
She had complained of a racing heart.
Margaret had knocked it from her hand before she could finish.
I looked at Laura.
“Margaret knew what was in the tea.”
“We believe so.”
My phone rang.
The secure number had been given to only three people.
Laura answered.
A distorted male voice spoke.
“You found the wrong body.”
Laura activated the recorder.
“Who is this?”
The man laughed.
Then he said my name.
“Emily, ask your doctor what happened to the blood sample from March seventeenth.”
Dr. Patel went pale.
The line disconnected.
I looked at her.
“What happened on March seventeenth?”
She did not answer.
Laura stood.
“Doctor?”
Dr. Patel’s eyes filled with fear.
“That was the day someone broke into the hospital laboratory.”
“What was stolen?”
May you like
She looked at me.
“Only your blood.”
