Chapter 2
Edwin opened the medication cabinet himself.
Three bottles sat inside.
One was current.
One should have been empty.
The third belonged to the first week after I came home from the hospital and should not have been there at all.
June crouched beside him but did not touch anything.
“Why keep the old one?”
Lucia answered too quickly.
“House staff are careless.”
Edwin looked at her.
“No.”
The room went quiet.
He had served the Santoro estate for thirty-one years. I had heard him disagree with my father exactly twice and with me perhaps four times.
He did not waste the word.
Lucia stared.
Edwin continued. “I clear expired medication personally.”
I looked at him.
“When did you last clear this cabinet?”
“Eight days ago.”
“And that bottle?”
“Was not here.”
June looked toward Lucia.
Grant tried to stand and failed.
“Everyone’s staring at the wrong thing,” he snapped. “Rocco has been getting worse whether those bottles exist or not.”
That was true.
Which made it useful.
I had been having spasms at night, during meals, before meetings. Some lasted seconds. Others locked my whole leg until sweat ran down my back.
The doctors called it nerve recovery.
Lucia called it dramatics.
Grant called it proof I could no longer lead.
June had been the first person in weeks to respond as if pain mattered before politics.
I looked at her.
“How long have you worked here?”
“Six days.”
Lucia scoffed. “Exactly.”
June ignored her.
I continued. “How many times have you seen me take medication?”
She hesitated.
“Twice.”
Edwin looked sharply at her.
“Twice?”
June nodded. “Both times when he asked directly.”
I stared at Lucia.
Every other dose had supposedly been brought by staff.
Or so I had been told.
June looked uncomfortable but kept speaking.
“The first morning I worked here, Mrs. Santoro told me never to offer anything when you had a spasm.”
Lucia’s face hardened.
“What exactly did she say?” I asked.
June glanced at her.
Then back at me.
“She said if I helped, I’d teach you to perform for attention.”
Grant laughed weakly.
“That sounds like him.”
I looked at him.
Then the bottles.
Someone had spent weeks turning treatment into indulgence.
May you like
Pain into performance.
And every missed dose into evidence that I was deteriorating on my own.
