Chapter 5: The Burner Phone
The interior of the abandoned greenhouse smelled of decaying soil, rusted iron, and sweet, overgrown jasmine that had long since broken free of its wooden trellises. Shattered panes of glass crunched softly under our shoes as we picked our way to the far corner where a dense wall of ferns offered a screen from the moonlight cutting through the broken roof. Outside, the wind howled through the sprawling oaks of the estate, but inside, the air was still and thick with humidity.
I sank down onto a wooden potting bench, pulling Lily onto my lap to share the meager warmth of my tuxedo jacket. She curled up against my chest without a word, her thumb resting lightly near her lips, her eyes heavy with exhaustion. In the dim light filtering through the glass, I pulled the small burner phone from the inner pocket of my jacket—a cheap, prepaid device I had kept hidden away in my studio for months, purchased with cash during a rare trip into town without Arthur's drivers hovering nearby.
My fingers shook slightly as I punched in the eleven-digit number memorized long ago. It belonged to Dr. Marcus Vance, no relation to Arthur despite the shared surname, who had served as our family physician until Arthur had quietly forced him out five years ago under the guise of an early retirement. Marcus had known about my severe anaphylaxis since I was a child; he was the one who had taught me how to recognize the early warning signs of an attack and prescribed the very emergency protocols that Arthur had spent the last decade trying to bury.
The phone rang three times before a gruff, tired voice answered on the other end. “If this is a sales pitch, I'm hanging up.”
“Marcus,” I said, my voice cracking slightly. “It’s Julian.”
A heavy silence fell over the line, broken only by the static hiss of the bad connection. When Marcus spoke again, all the sleepiness had vanished from his tone, replaced by instant, sharp alarm. “Julian? Where are you? The foundation gala was broadcast on the local news an hour ago. Your father gave a speech about your new philanthropic initiative. Are you alright? You sound short of breath.”
“I’m out,” I whispered, glancing down to make sure Lily was still resting quietly against me. “We got out of the mansion ten minutes ago. I had an attack in the hallway before the event. Lily... Lily had to use the last auto-injector. The blue-label one.”
Another silence, longer and heavier than the first, stretched across the phone line. When Marcus finally spoke, his voice dropped to a harsh, furious whisper. “The blue label? Julian, listen to me very carefully. Those lots were recalled six months ago. Not because of a mechanical defect—because the pharmaceutical supplier cut the epinephrine concentration in half to shave production costs for the foundation's bulk order. Your father signed off on the purchase waiver to save sixty thousand dollars.”
May you like
The words hit me like a physical blow, driving the remaining air straight out of my lungs. I gripped the edge of the wooden bench, my knuckles turning white. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying your father didn't just neglect your condition, Julian,” Marcus said, the bitterness dripping from every syllable. “He knowingly bought bargain-bin poison, and when you went into shock tonight, you used a dummy pen that shouldn't have saved your life at all.”
