He sent the flask and Kojo’s vial for immediate toxicology, drew blood and hair samples from Lila, and ordered emergency ophthalmology and neurology reviews under strict confidentiality.
“Marcus,” he said quietly, “if this is what you think it is, every hour matters.”
Marcus leaned both hands on the counter.
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
Dr.
Mensah did not answer.
While the tests ran, Marcus sent Daniel and two trusted staff members to the penthouse with direct orders: secure Lila’s room, Serena’s dressing room, every medication cabinet, every trash bin, every sink.
The first call came twenty-eight minutes later.
“Sir,” Daniel said, and Marcus could hear controlled disbelief in his voice, “we found a locked cosmetic case behind Mrs.
Bennett’s winter storage.
Inside were three unlabeled droppers, two empty amber vials, disposable gloves, and a handwritten schedule.”
Marcus gripped the phone harder.
“What kind of schedule?”
Daniel swallowed audibly.
“It lists dates and doses.
There are notes beside several entries.
‘Blurred by noon.’ ‘More squinting today.’ ‘Increase half-drop.’”
Marcus closed his eyes.
He had stood in boardrooms while entire companies collapsed around him.
He had never felt as unsteady as he did listening to a man read notes on his daughter’s suffering in his wife’s handwriting.
An hour later, Dr.
Mensah came back with the first results.
“The flask contains a compounded solution,” he said.
“There’s evidence of repeated low-dose thallium exposure and an additional agent that can inflame the optic nerve when administered over time.”
Marcus stared at him.
Dr.
Mensah continued carefully.
“This is not a degenerative disease.
The presentation was designed to mimic one.
