Wearing nitrile gloves, Paul unzipped the front compartment of the bag.
He found a second oral syringe, completely empty, wrapped inside a crumpled paper towel. Tucked beside it was half of a torn prescription label.
The patient’s name had been ripped away. The transaction control number had not.
Paul matched the remaining numbers directly to the pharmacy printout sitting on the counter inside.
The prescription had not been written for Violet.
The paramedic stepped out to the curb for a brief moment. “What are we looking at, Paul? Her heart rate is dropping.”
Paul flipped the page of the database printout. The order had been issued under Richard’s medical license, but the patient field belonged to an adult oncology patient at his clinic—a high-dose liquid sedative used strictly in controlled palliative care.
Richard began speaking rapidly, his tone shifting from outrage to clinical explanation. He said it was a simple packaging mix-up at the office. He said he had administered a safe, diluted dose. He said Violet was prone to somatization and dramatic outbursts. He said Nora copied everything her twin did out of anxious dependency.
