Chapter 3 - The Toxicology of Betrayal
The drive to the Iowa veterinary emergency center felt like it took hours, though it was only ten minutes through the sleet-slicked streets of Cedar Rapids. Chris drove our car, silent and pale, while Lauren held Buddy’s heavy head in her lap, whispering soothing nonsense into his torn ear. Ethan sat beside me in the back seat, clutching my hand so hard my knuckles went white.
"Is Buddy going to sleep forever, Dad?" Ethan asked, his voice small and terrified.
"No, buddy," I lied, staring out at the blurred neon signs of strip malls and gas stations. "He's just sick. The doctors are going to fix him."
When we arrived, the veterinary toxicology team was already waiting, alerted by Lauren’s frantic call. They took Buddy back immediately on a gurney, his tongue lolling, his breath coming in shallow, rattling gasps. We were left in the sterile waiting room, the smell of disinfectant sharp and cold.
Chris sat in the corner, his head in his hands, rocking back and forth. "She said she bought essential oils," he muttered into his palms, over and over. "She said she was making a special blend for the turkey. She said it smelled like autumn."
"It smelled like organophosphate, Chris," I said, pacing the length of the linoleum floor. "That's a heavy pesticide. Livestock dip. It kills cattle. It was meant to stop my heart, not Ethan's. Ethan just happened to look at his plate first."
The heavy double doors swung open and Dr. Hayes walked out, wiping his hands on a blue paper towel. He looked at us with a grim, exhausted expression. "The dog ingested a micro-dose from the rim of the plate. We induced vomiting immediately and gave him atropine. He's stable, but his liver enzymes are spiked. If he had eaten the meat—" Dr. Hayes stopped, shaking his head. "It would have been fatal within twenty minutes. Respiratory collapse."
"Can you save the residue on the plate?" Lauren asked, stepping forward.
"I already ran a rapid screening on the swab you brought from the napkin," Dr. Hayes said, holding up a clear evidence vial containing the tiny brown dropper bottle. "It’s a concentrated neurotoxin. Highly restricted. You can't buy this at a garden center. You need an agricultural license or a veterinary supplier."
Chris looked up, his face gray. "Megan's brother works for the county agricultural extension office."
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"And Megan has been handling all the catering arrangements for the family dinners since she married into the family," Lauren added quietly. "She wanted your mother's house, Chris. She wanted the deed, and she knew Daniel was the only one standing in the way of your mother signing over the property trust."
The pieces clicked together with terrifying clarity. My mother’s house was paid off, sitting on five acres of prime land near the river. Patricia had been talking about putting the property into a family trust, and as the eldest son, I was named executor. If I died—or if my family was wiped out in a sudden, tragic holiday accident—Chris and Megan would inherit everything by default.
