Chapter 2 - The Pill He Had Taken for Twenty-Seven Years
William did not believe Naomi.
He wanted to.
That frightened him more than disbelief.
Hope was dangerous to a man who had spent thirty years learning how not to feel it.
He ordered Naomi and the twins taken to a private hotel suite.
Not his home.
Naomi refused initially.
“I’m not becoming your prisoner.”
“You’re becoming a witness.”
“To what?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Then stop giving orders like you do.”
William stared.
Ivy grinned.
“Our mom does that.”
“I noticed.”
William contacted Dr. Amelia Grant, a neurologist at Northwestern who had never treated him.
He gave her his historical scans without names.
No context.
No Holt.
No Moretti-style pressure.
Just data.
Grant called four hours later.
“The diagnosis doesn't make sense.”
William’s hand tightened around the phone.
“What?”
“The original injury is incomplete.”
“How incomplete?”
“Severe. But not consistent with lifelong total motor absence.”
William stared at the Chicago skyline.
“What would you expect?”
“Some recovery.”
“How much?”
“Impossible to say.”
“But something.”
“Yes.”
William closed his eyes.
“Could medication suppress it?”
“Certain combinations could reduce tone, reflex activity, awareness of weak signals.”
“Could they hide meaningful recovery?”
Long pause.
“Potentially.”
His heart accelerated.
“Neurodex?”
Silence.
“Mr. Ashford, Neurodex isn't approved.”
“I know.”
“No. I mean it was never approved for human neurological treatment.”
William stared at the bottle on his desk.
“Holt said compassionate-use authorization.”
“I would need documentation.”
William sent it.
Grant called again.
“The authorization number is fake.”
Something inside William broke very quietly.
Not anger.
Not yet.
Reality.
That night he summoned Raymond Holt.
The neurologist arrived at William’s estate at 8:40.
Seventy-one.
Silver hair.
Soft voice.
The same leather bag he had carried since William was a teenager.
“You sounded upset.”
William looked at the man who had watched him grow up.
“Sit.”
Holt did.
William placed Neurodex between them.
“What is this?”
Holt barely glanced.
“Your medication.”
“No.”
William’s voice was calm.
“What is it?”
Holt’s face changed.
Only slightly.
Enough.
“Where is this coming from?”
“Naomi Reed.”
Holt became pale.
“There it is.”
William stared.
“You remember her.”
“Of course. Unstable employee.”
“She says you suppressed test results.”
“She was fired for misconduct.”
“She says my injury was incomplete.”
Holt sighed.
“William—”
“Dr. Grant agrees.”
That landed.
Holt’s expression hardened.
“You sought outside advice without discussing it with me?”
William almost laughed.
“Listen to yourself.”
Holt leaned forward.
“You have extensive scar tissue. Any sporadic motor response—”
“My drug authorization is forged.”
Silence.
Holt’s eyes dropped toward the bottle.
William whispered:
“Explain.”
“I can.”
“Good.”
Holt stood.
“Not here.”
William’s security immediately moved.
“Sit.”
For the first time in thirty-one years, Raymond Holt looked afraid of him.
He sat.
Then said:
“The medication protected you.”
“From what?”
“Pain.”
“I don't have pain.”
“Exactly.”
William stared.
That answer made no sense.
Holt continued:
“Your nervous system became hyperreactive after the accident. We discovered abnormal signaling.”
“We?”
“Your father.”
William stopped breathing.
Arthur Ashford had died sixteen years earlier.
“What did my father have to do with my medical treatment?”
Everything, apparently.
Holt looked exhausted.
“Your father paid for experimental trials.”
“I know.”
“No.”
Holt looked at him.
“You know what he told you.”
William’s voice dropped.
“What did he do?”
Holt would not answer.
William leaned closer.
“My father is dead. You are seventy-one. Whatever fear kept you quiet has expired.”
Holt whispered:
“No, it hasn't.”
Then the estate alarm sounded.
Gunfire outside.
Naomi screamed from the hallway.
Security rushed.
Holt moved.
Too fast.
He grabbed the medication bottle.
William caught his wrist.
“Marcus!”
Marcus entered.
Holt shoved the bottle into his own mouth.
William reacted instantly.
He struck Holt’s hand with the armrest of the wheelchair.
Pills scattered.
Marcus restrained him.
Holt began sobbing.
“Let me die.”
William stared.
“Why?”
“Because they’ll kill me anyway.”
“Who?”
Holt looked toward the windows.
“The people your father made rich.”
William felt sick.
“What did he make them rich doing?”
May you like
Holt answered:
“Keeping you in that chair.”
