The Poisoned Vintage

The precinct interrogation room was windowless, smelling faintly of stale coffee and industrial disinfectant. Mark sat on the other side of the two-way mirror, watching as Detective Miller dropped a file folder onto the steel table in front of Victoria.

Victoria sat with her arms crossed, her hair slightly disheveled, but her posture still radiating aristocratic arrogance.

“Your lawyer is on his way, Ms. Laurent,” Detective Miller said, leaning forward. “Though I’m not sure even a high-priced defense attorney can talk you out of a Class A felony charge for attempting to poison a Fortune 500 CEO with digitalis glycoside.”

Victoria offered a cold, unimpressed smile. “My fingerprints aren't on the glass, Detective. The girl is six years old—her testimony won't hold up in court for five seconds under cross-examination. Mark is a gullible fool who will realize he overreacted by morning.”

Behind the mirror, Mark’s fists clenched so tightly his fingernails dug into his palms. He had trusted this woman. He had invited her into his home, introduced her to his daughter, and planned a wedding. And all the while, she had been methodically plotting his demise.

Detective Miller slid a printed bank statement across the table. “Maybe the girl’s testimony is shaky, Victoria. But what about the four hundred thousand dollars wired into your offshore account yesterday morning from an account registered to Sterling Industries’ chief financial rival, Harrison Drake?”