Chapter 3 - The Broken Alibi
"Thallium poisoning is exceedingly rare in modern clinical practice," Dr. Vance continued, cutting sharply through the roaring silence in my ears. "It is rarely accidental. It requires repeated, sustained ingestion over a period of weeks or months. Someone close to the patient—someone preparing her daily meals, her morning vitamins, or packing her daily lunchbox—has been administering small, measured doses."
The words dropped onto the sterile floor like heavy stones. Someone close to the patient.
I slowly turned my head to look at Michael. The color had completely drained from his face, leaving his skin a sickly, translucent grey. The man I had shared a bed with for twelve years, the man who kissed Emma goodnight every single evening and told bedtime stories about brave knights and magical kingdoms, suddenly looked like a stranger wrapped in tailored wool.
"Michael," I whispered, my voice shaking with a terrifying tremor that threatened to tear my vocal cords apart. "Look at me. What is the doctor saying? What did you give her?"
Michael finally raised his eyes, but they were cold, guarded, and hollowed out by panic. "Clara, stop it. You're hysterical. You're letting your work stress and hospital paranoia cloud your judgment. Why are you immediately looking at me like I'm a monster?"
"Because you haven't asked a single question about the poison!" I screamed, the professional composure I had maintained for a decade shattering into a million jagged pieces. "Because you haven't looked shocked, Michael! You look like a man who just got caught!"
Dr. Vance stepped back, sensing the volatile storm erupting inside the consultation room. "Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, I am obligated by Washington state law to report findings of acute criminal poisoning to hospital security and local law enforcement immediately. Detectives are already downstairs."
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Before Michael could lunge toward the door or offer another fabricated excuse, the heavy glass door swung open. Two local police detectives in plain clothes stepped inside, their presence instantly shrinking the room into a cage. The lead detective, a sharp-eyed woman with a stern expression, flipped open a leather badge case.
"Mr. Michael Johnson? And Mrs. Clara Johnson? I’m Detective Reynolds, Seattle PD. We received an urgent preliminary toxicology report from the attending physician. Mr. Johnson, I need you to come with us down to the precinct for questioning regarding an ongoing corporate espionage and asset embezzlement investigation involving your firm—and a series of chemical purchases traced directly to your personal credit card."
