Chapter 1 - The Thursday Visit
Hannah’s voice trembled slightly as she described the gray waves crashing violently against the sharp rocks below my estate.
I listened to her words with a terrifying new perspective.
For five years, I had accepted this total darkness as my permanent punishment for failing to protect my family.
Now, the mere possibility that my blindness was artificially induced made my blood run entirely cold.
If Vernon Hale had been lying to me about my condition, then the explosion that took my wife and daughter was not a random act of syndicate violence.
It was a highly calculated inside job.
I heard the heavy oak doors of the library swing open with a familiar, metallic click.
The heavy, measured footsteps of Dr. Vernon Hale echoed sharply against the marble floor.
He always arrived precisely at ten o'clock on Thursday mornings, carrying his worn leather medical bag.
"Good morning, Grant," Hale said, his voice dripping with that familiar, sickeningly warm bedside manner.
"I am ready for the drops, Vernon," I replied, keeping my tone perfectly flat and emotionless.
Hannah quietly stepped back into the shadows, making absolutely no sound.
Hale opened his leather bag, the glass vials clinking softly against each other.
"Your inflammation seems a bit worse today, my friend," Hale noted as he gently tilted my head back.
He squeezed the cold liquid into my left eye, and I forced myself not to flinch.
Instead of letting it absorb, I subtly squeezed my eyelids shut, forcing the liquid to run down my cheek into my collar.
Hale did not seem to notice my deception as he moved to my right eye.
I repeated the subtle trick, letting the heavy, bitter-smelling fluid soak harmlessly into my shirt.
"There we go, all done for the week," Hale said, snapping his bag shut.
He patted my shoulder warmly and walked out of the room, leaving me alone with Hannah.
I immediately pulled a pristine linen handkerchief from my pocket and violently wiped the remaining residue from my face.
"Hannah," I whispered sharply.
"Yes, Mr. Mercer," she answered, stepping closer to my chair.
"Take this handkerchief to your room and figure out exactly what kind of chemical is on it."
I heard her sharp intake of breath, realizing the immense danger I was suddenly asking her to step into.
Before she could reach out to take the cloth, the heavy library doors swung open once again.
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"Well, isn't this a cozy little secret meeting," a deep, rough voice sneered from the doorway.
It was Daniel Cross, my trusted syndicate lieutenant, and I could hear the unmistakable metallic slide of a loaded pistol being racked.
