On the larger image, two participants discussed something about a quantitative summary. Tony didn’t care. His attention was on the small corner where Claire wrapped her arms around her midsection and watched Eric drive away. Color returned to the image as the garage door closed. She turned back to the way she’d entered when she stopped and stared toward the open cabinet.
Tony didn’t know what was being said on his web conference as he held his breath and waited. Seconds earlier, time had stood still; now he couldn’t slow it down. Claire reached into the cabinet and grabbed a set of keys. The ones to the new Mercedes were purposely placed in a more accessible spot. The headlights flashed as she hit the button on the fob.
When the garage door opened again, Tony didn’t notice the loss of color. His vision, his office, his life was red. The disappointment was overwhelming. The pain of betrayal washed over him as the crimson-colored memories sped through his consciousness. Everything—all twenty-two months—was a lie. Claire never loved him. If she had, she wouldn’t have jumped at the first opportunity to leave. She’d played him, used him, and manipulated him. He’d been a fool to believe that love existed. He’d never seen it—not the love they talk about in songs or in books. Not the look she’d given to Simon Johnson. None of it was real. It was a fictitious emotion created for saps who wanted to believe, an illusion—like Santa Claus. The idea brought people joy, until they were faced with the bitter reality and disappointment of betrayal. Hadn’t Tony learned the truth a long time ago? Numbers were real. Money was real. Emotions were for the weak.
As the garage door closed, Tony reached for the ceramic cup. The liquid had cooled, yet as he used one hand to make the web conference fill his entire screen, his other hand tentatively touched the rounded handle as if it were potentially scalding. He didn’t know how long it took to pick up the cup, or to take that first drink; however, as soon as he did, redness exploded, extreme pain clenched his chest, and blackness prevailed.
Consequences are unpitying.
—George Eliot
Voices infiltrated the smothering darkness. Tony fought to find the surface, to break free of the blackness that surrounded him. It was as if he were at the bottom of a deep pit filled with water, swimming toward the air, pushing upward with all of his strength. Where was it? As the voices became clearer, he focused on and used them as his new goal. With all his might, he pushed toward the sound. A few more attempts and he’d break free.
The voices were clear. “Doctor, his vitals are stronger. The medicines have gotten his blood pressure back within the normal range.”
“Have there been any signs of regaining consciousness?”
The first voice sounded less confident. “His physical response has been encouraging. The results of the EEG are in his chart, but we haven’t had any signs of voluntary movement.”
Tony pushed forward, I’m here. I can hear you! The darkness wouldn’t allow him to speak. Unrelenting, it wrapped about him, filled him, and held him tight.
“Doctor, do we know the substance he ingested?”
“Not completely. The preliminary tests of the coffee found at the scene, and the contents removed from his stomach, confirm that the coffee was the source; however, due to his physical reaction, we believe the list is inconclusive.”
“There was more than one toxin?”
“Yes, whoever did this, wanted to be sure it …”
The voices drifted farther away, taking with them Tony’s audible goal and disorienting him in the darkness. Exhaustion prevailed and the blackness momentarily won.
Tony blinked his eyes, trying to focus on the world beyond the black. The room was bright, too bright, as people spoke. Keeping his eyes open was too difficult; instead, he settled into the darkness of his closed eyes and tried to listen. He heard voices, but their words were unfamiliar. Slowly they began to register … his heart—they were talking about his heart: it was beating.
That was reassuring, and he was glad to hear that, but he had to wonder: had it not been?
When he felt someone touch his forehead, he opened his eyes. It was one of the people in scrubs. Tony blinked toward her.
“Doctor, the patient is conscious.”
Suddenly, another face was before him. This face had bright eyes that were acutely alert. “Hello, Mr. Rawlings, we’re glad you decided to join us.”
Tony tried to talk, but he couldn’t. There were unknown sensations in his chest and throat that ached. The sensation was more of discomfort than pain. He tried to block it and searched for a new goal. Somewhere in the chaos he found a consistent beeping—somewhere beyond the people and discomfort. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the steady rhythm.
“Mr. Rawlings, don’t leave us again. We need you to stay with us.” It was the voice of the bright eyes.
He looked toward her and blinked.
“Can you hear me?”
Since he couldn’t speak, he blinked.
“You had us all worried.”
Tony’s mind scrambled. What happened? Where was he? Why were they talking about his heart?
His heart.
They said it was beating, yet agonizing emptiness made him doubt its presence. As Bright Eyes stared, the memories rushed back. He couldn’t think of anything except Claire’s examination. She took the bait, drove away, and failed his test. How these people could possibly be right? How could his heart continue to beat when Claire had ripped it out of his chest and shattered it beyond repair?