Chapter 2 - One Blink Means Yes
I did not sleep.
Every sensible instinct told me to take Theodore, pack my suitcase, and leave.
Instead, I remained beside Raymond.
Maybe it was desperation.
Maybe it was curiosity.
Or maybe it was the fear in his eye.
People who had everything weren't supposed to look that helpless inside their own homes.
At 1:17 a.m., Theodore slept in his portable crib while I sat beside Raymond.
“We need a way to communicate.”
Raymond blinked.
I held up one finger.
“One blink means yes.”
One blink.
“Two means no.”
Two blinks.
“Good.”
It felt ridiculous for perhaps thirty seconds.
Then it became terrifyingly effective.
“Can you understand everything I’m saying?”
One blink.
“Have you been conscious before tonight?”
One blink.
“How long?”
That couldn't be answered with yes or no.
I found a notepad.
“Days?”
One blink.
“Weeks?”
One blink.
“More than a month?”
One blink.
I stared at him.
Raymond had been trapped inside his body, listening.
“Can you hear what people say around you?”
One blink.
My stomach turned.
I remembered Christopher casually discussing funeral arrangements downstairs.
“What happened to you?”
Raymond struggled.
Nothing came out.
“Don't force it.”
His gaze moved toward the door.
I understood.
“You’re afraid someone will come.”
One blink.
We practiced another signal.
Looking toward the door meant danger.
By dawn, Raymond could move his lips slightly.
I gave him water carefully, following the instructions left by his medical team.
Then I leaned close.
“Who did this?”
His mouth moved.
“Chris…”
“Christopher?”
One blink.
“What did he do?”
Raymond swallowed.
“Isn’t…”
I lowered my ear.
“Isn’t waiting…”
“For what?”
“My inheritance.”
I froze.
Raymond gathered enough strength for four more words.
“He’s speeding it up.”
Footsteps sounded outside.
Raymond’s eyes shut instantly.
The door opened.
Christopher entered wearing another immaculate suit.
“How is our patient?”
I forced my voice to remain steady.
“No change.”
“Good.”
Good.
Not I’m sorry.
Not I hoped he might improve.
Good.
Christopher walked to the windows.
“Dr. Wallace will be here at four.”
I nodded.
He turned toward me.
“And Nora?”
“Yes?”
“If your son cries all night again, you'll both need somewhere else to stay.”
My throat tightened.
“I understand.”
He left.
Raymond opened his eyes.
“Don’t tell him,” he whispered.
“I won’t.”
But now I had a bigger problem.
If Raymond was right, keeping his secret meant remaining inside a house with the person he believed was killing him.
At four that afternoon, Dr. Samuel Wallace arrived.
He was in his late fifties, silver-haired, composed, and almost aggressively reassuring.
Christopher accompanied him upstairs.
“How long?” Christopher asked.
Wallace examined Raymond.
“Five days. Six if he's fortunate.”
Christopher folded his arms.
“Fortunate?”
Wallace glanced at him.
“You understand what I mean.”
Something passed between them.
I pretended not to notice.
Then Wallace opened his leather medical bag.
He removed a plain white box.
No pharmacy label.
No printed instructions.
Only handwriting.
I watched him prepare a syringe.
“What is that?” I asked.
Wallace looked at me.
“His medication.”
“I don't recognize it from the chart.”
A beat of silence.
Then Christopher smiled.
“Nora, I believe the physician knows how to do his job.”
Wallace connected the syringe to Raymond’s IV.
I watched the medication disappear.
Raymond did not react.
Not visibly.
But beneath the blanket, his finger twitched once.
Ten minutes later, his breathing changed.
Shallower.
Slower.
I moved closer.
“Doctor?”
Wallace calmly checked Raymond.
“He's fading.”
Then he packed the vial into his own bag.
He didn't place it with Raymond’s other medication.
That bothered me.
So did the way Christopher watched the monitor.
Not his uncle.
The monitor.
“How long now?” Christopher asked.
Wallace closed his bag.
“Five days.”
After they left, I waited.
Raymond did not open his eyes.
“Raymond?”
Nothing.
Panic rose in me.
I touched his hand.
Cold.
“Raymond.”
Still nothing.
For several hours, I thought I had lost him.
Then, shortly before midnight, one finger moved.
I nearly cried.
His eyelid opened.
“Was it the injection?”
One blink.
I took out my phone.
“What was written on the box?”
His eyes moved helplessly.
“I saw it,” I said. “I think I remember.”
I typed the name into a search engine.
I read.
Then read again.
Under certain circumstances, the medication could cause profound muscle weakness and dangerously suppress breathing.
My hand began trembling.
I looked at Raymond.
“You aren't dying naturally.”
His eye filled with tears.
“They're keeping you like this.”
One blink.
I sat beside him in the darkness.
I thought about leaving.
I thought about calling the police.
Then I thought about what evidence I had.
A frightened man who could barely communicate.
A medicine box I didn't possess.
A respected physician.
A millionaire’s polished nephew.
And me.
A broke single mother who had been living in their house for less than two days.
Who would they believe?
I wrapped my hand around Raymond’s cold fingers.
“I won’t let them kill you.”
His fingers barely tightened around my wrist.
Then a floorboard creaked outside.
May you like
Someone was standing beyond the bedroom door.
Listening.
