“Prescription medications?” I repeated, looking past her directly into Sabrina’s smug eyes.
Sabrina stepped forward, laying a manicured hand on Evelyn’s arm with an expression of performative grief. “Mom, please, don’t be too hard on her. Camille has been under an immense amount of pressure since Dad died. Running Vance Logistics is too much for someone with her… delicate disposition. I found a bottle of concentrated digitalis in the pantry when I was looking for paper napkins. Dad’s old heart medication. Camille, did you accidentally knock the drops into the lemonade syrup?”
The audacity of the lie was breathtaking.
My father had died of heart failure eight months ago in a specialized hospice facility fifty miles away. None of his medications had ever entered my house.
“Digitalis,” Nolan said, stepping forward. His towering six-foot-two frame shadowed Sabrina instantly. His jaw worked as if he were fighting the urge to arrest her right where she stood. “You’re diagnosing cardiac glycoside toxicity before the pediatric tox-screen has even come back from the lab, Sabrina? That’s remarkably observant of you.”
Sabrina didn’t even flinch. She was too arrogant, too insulated by her perceived wealth and our mother’s favoritism.
“I’m simply trying to help the doctors,” Sabrina said smoothly, turning to Richard Sterling. “Richard, show her.”
Richard cleared his throat nervously, adjusting his gold-rimmed spectacles. He pulled a thick manila folder from his leather briefcase. “Camille, in light of these tragic circumstances and the clear evidence of domestic endangerment resulting from psychological fatigue, the board of Vance Logistics held an emergency teleconference twenty minutes ago. Given your current state, Evelyn and Sabrina have petitioned for an interim conservatorship over your voting shares to protect the firm’s assets.”
I looked at the legal document being thrust toward my face.
My daughter was hovering between life and death inside Trauma Bay 1, fighting for every breath, and my family had brought a contract to strip my ownership before her heart rate had even stabilized.
“You brought a corporate takeover petition to a pediatric trauma unit,” I whispered, the words coming out as cold and sharp as obsidian.
“We are protecting this family!” Evelyn hissed. “You are reckless, Camille! You have always been reckless! If you sign the temporary proxy, we will handle Harper’s medical bills, we will get you the best psychiatric help in the state, and we will make sure the police understand this was merely a tragic domestic accident.”
“And if I don’t sign?” I asked.
