Chapter 2 - The Toxicology Report and the Discovery
Two hours later, the storm outside Pittsburgh had battered itself out, leaving the morning sky bruised and gray.
I woke up in the intensive care recovery unit. The rhythmic beep of a monitor beside my bed signaled steady life. I turned my head slowly. In the corner of the room, a clear plastic bassinet stood under a warm radiant heater.
Inside lay a tiny, fragile bundle of life.
My son. Born premature at thirty-five weeks, but breathing on his own.
The door to the private recovery suite opened softly. Richard Prescott walked in. He looked older than his sixty years, the lines around his eyes carved deep by exhaustion and fury. In his hand, he held a sealed manila folder bearing the stamp of the Hawthorne Toxicology and Pharmacology Department.
“Natalie,” Richard said quietly, stepping up to my bedside. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been run over by a freight train,” I whispered, my throat dry. “Where is my baby?”
“He’s right over there,” Richard smiled faintly, pointing to the bassinet. “Dr. Monroe says he’s strong. Small, but a fighter. Just like his mother.”
Tears pricked my eyes. “And Owen?”
Richard’s expression hardened like stone. He placed the manila folder on my bedside table.
“Owen is currently sequestered in the administrative wing awaiting formal termination hearings,” Richard said. “And more importantly… the toxicology lab finished analyzing the tea packet your nurse recovered from his bag.”
My breath caught. “What did they find?”
“Dr. Monroe and our lead pharmacologist cross-referenced the ingredients,” Richard said, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. “It wasn't a standard sleep tea, Natalie. It contained concentrated doses of pennyroyal and black cohosh—herbal abortifacients and uterine stimulants traditionally used to induce contractions in late-term pregnancies.”
The room seemed to spin.
For eleven weeks, Owen had insisted I drink that tea every single night. He had brewed it for me with his own hands, smiling, kissing my forehead, telling me it was good for my health.
He hadn't been trying to help me. He had been trying to induce premature labor.
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“Why?” I whispered, horror washing over me in cold waves. “Why would he want to harm our baby?”
“Because six months ago, Owen quietly added himself as the sole beneficiary to a multi-million-dollar executive life insurance policy tied to your name—and a trust fund your grandfather left you,” Richard said grimly. “A healthy child would have complicated his impending divorce from you and tied up the estate. But an emergency medical crisis, or a tragic premature birth… that would have played right into his hands.”
