Chapter 11: Shadows Behind St. Michael's
The gray autumn mist clung to the wrought-iron fence of St. Michael's parish as Julian steered his black sedan into the damp church parking lot. We parked near the Dumpsters at the far corner, away from the stained-glass windows and the Sunday parishioners. Brutus let out a low, vibrating huff from the backseat, his massive head resting against the center console between Julian and me. His spiked collar clinked softly against the leather upholstery whenever he shifted his weight.
"Stay here with the dog," Julian instructed quietly, checking his wristwatch before shutting off the engine. His slicked-back dark hair caught the pale morning light through the windshield. "Doctor Henderson is cautious. Seeing a large Cane Corso bounding across church grounds won't put him at ease, even if Brutus is a saint."
"Brutus goes where I go," I replied, my voice steady as I stroked the coarse black fur behind the dog's left ear. Brutus pressed his heavy weight against my arm, offering silent, solid reassurance.
Julian sighed, running a hand down his dark suit lapel before opening his door. "Fine. But keep him close. The board knows we won the injunction, and Marcus won't take this sitting down."
We stepped out into the crisp autumn air. The church parking lot was quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic on the county highway. A tall, stooped man in a heavy tweed coat emerged from the side door of the parish hall, clutching a worn leather medical bag. It was Doctor Henderson, my father's primary physician for over twenty years, looking thinner and more worn than he had when visiting the mansion study.
"Sophia," the doctor said, stopping by the hood of the car. His eyes darted nervously toward Brutus, who let out a deep, chest-rumbling growl that caused the old man to freeze instantly. "Good lord, child. That animal is terrifying."
"He's only protecting us," I said, stepping forward while keeping a hand firmly on the dog's spiked collar. "Did you bring the file?"
Henderson swallowed hard, pulling a sealed manila envelope from beneath his tweed arm. "Digitalis," he whispered, looking over his shoulder as if the brick walls of the church had ears. "A slow-acting cardiac glycoside. Someone was administering micro-doses to your father's evening tea for months. It mimics a natural heart attack while blocking standard emergency resuscitation drugs."
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Julian stepped closer, his expression hardening into a cold, focused mask. "Who prescribed it, Doctor? The hospital records listed acute coronary failure."
"The hospital records were amended by the corporate board's medical liaison thirty minutes after admission," Henderson replied, his hands shaking slightly as he handed the envelope to Julian. "I kept the original blood panels. If you take this to the federal prosecutor, the entire board will face criminal charges."
