Chapter 8 - The Decoy
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The moment I stepped out of the dining room, the facade dropped. I moved with silent, urgent speed, heading straight for the basement corridors.
Hector and Marta were already waiting for me.
“Is the transport ready?” I asked, my voice a low, commanding whisper.
“Yes, Mr. Costa,” Hector nodded grimly. “The medical van is idling in the underground garage. The private facility upstate is prepared to receive her.”
I turned to Marta. The brave housekeeper looked terrified but resolute. “You know what to do?”
“Yes, sir,” Marta said, clutching her apron. “I will make sure Miss Audrey is distracted in the kitchen for exactly ten minutes.”
I didn't waste another second. While Marta intercepted Audrey under the guise of asking about the morning breakfast menu, Hector and I slipped into my mother’s bedroom.
My mother was awake, her gray eyes wide with fear as we entered.
“It’s okay, Ma,” I whispered, rushing to her bedside. “We are getting you out of here. You are safe now.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks as Hector and I carefully, swiftly lifted her frail body onto a specialized medical transport gurney. We moved in absolute silence, rolling her out through the private service elevator that Audrey didn't even know existed.
Once my mother was safely loaded into the armored medical van with a trusted doctor by her side, I returned to the bedroom to set the stage.
I took the extra pillows from the closet and arranged them carefully beneath the thick, heavy duvet. I rolled up several spare blankets, shaping them to mimic the contours of a frail human body lying in the center of the bed. I pulled the blankets up high, just where my mother’s neck would be, and turned off the bedside lamp.
In the dim light pouring through the window, it looked perfectly convincing. A quiet, still figure waiting in the dark.
I checked my watch. 1:45 AM.
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Audrey would be coming soon. The doctor’s confession had stated that the final, lethal dose of the barbiturate cocktail needed to be administered in a massive quantity. If the patient resisted, the doctor had advised using physical force—smothering—to ensure the heart stopped before the struggle left bruises.
I walked into the deep shadows in the corner of the room, blending entirely into the darkness of the heavy velvet curtains. I drew my silenced pistol, checked the chamber, and waited for my fiancée to arrive.
