Chapter 8 - The Confession in the Dark
The inner office door swung open slowly.
Dr. Adrian Bell stood behind his mahogany desk, looking older and frailer than he had at the estate. He wore a crisp white lab coat over a tailored suit, silver-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. In his right hand, he held a small, black-lacquered revolver, pointed steadily at Vincent’s chest.
"You shouldn't have come alone, Vincent," Bell said, his voice disturbingly calm, lacking any trace of remorse. "Though, I suppose patience was never your strongest virtue."
"Put the gun down, Adrian, before I take it apart and shove it down your throat," Vincent advanced another step, stopping ten feet away. "You killed Claire. You drugged my son for four years. Why?"
Bell let out a dry, humorless chuckle, lowering the barrel by a fraction of an inch, though his grip remained firm.
"Killed Claire? No, Vincent. Claire was careless. She was looking into accounts she didn't understand—accounts connected to the syndicate's offshore logistics. When she threatened to take Noah and go to federal authorities, the board decided she was a liability. The truck accident... well, high-speed collisions on rainy parkways are remarkably efficient."
Vincent’s vision turned a violent shade of red. Every muscle in his body coiled like a steel spring. "You monsters."
"We are businessmen, Vincent," Bell countered smoothly, adjusting his glasses. "And as for Noah... what were we supposed to do with a four-year-old witness who understood everything his mother was saying before she died? The shock of the crash caused temporary trauma-induced muteness, yes. But his hearing was completely fine. If you had known he could hear, you would have unlocked the truth within a week."
"So you invented a fictitious progressive disorder," Vincent growled, his fists clenching at his sides. "You used Margaret to drug him every single morning to keep him compliant, quiet, and isolated."
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"It was an elegant solution," Bell smiled coldly. "It kept you depressed, distracted, and dependent on me. It kept the empire running smoothly while we managed the accounts. But then... you had to go hire a woman from Queens with a precocious three-year-old daughter who doesn't respect medical authority."
Bell’s finger tightened slightly on the trigger. "A pity you had to walk into this room, Vincent. Because now, the diagnosis for both of you is terminal."
