She searched the room for his belongings. There, tucked beneath a blanket on the spare cot, was his phone. Three percent battery. She unlocked it by pressing his thumb to the sensor. The screen lit up. A single audio file waited, labeled with the time stamp from the ballroom.
She pressed play.
Tiffany’s voice flowed from the speaker, clear as crystal.
“…months of preparation… tomorrow the vows… a grieving widow inherits…”
A quiet gasp escaped Janette.
The door opened. Dr. Malcolm Keating, the family physician, entered. His face was composed, but the silver syringe in his hand gleamed with finality.
“It is time to make arrangements,” he murmured. “No heartbeat worth saving.”
Janette moved to block him. “You will not touch him.”
Dr. Keating’s voice did not rise. “Do not make this harder. It is already paid for.”
In that moment, the heart monitor flatlined. For a second, Janette thought she was too late. Then Silas’s eyes snapped open. With a desperate surge, he sat up and seized the doctor’s wrist. The syringe clattered to the ground.
Nurses screamed. Janette shouted for help. Uniformed officers burst through the door.