Free Weapon of Choice by Patricia Gussin Page A

academic orgovernment labs. Every milligram of every chemical is closely controlled. I’m telling you, Victor, I can’t get it for you. The goddamned CEO, the guy who just got the Nobel Prize, Paul Parnell, couldn’t get it for you. God couldn’t get it for you. Forget it.”
    â€œLet’s talk about something else. Did you hear that Naomi and I went to Stockholm with the Parnells when the old man got the prize? That was one grand event, the company plane, the works.”
    Victor squeezed his hands together so tightly that they felt numb. Had Norman always been this egotistical? Now, with Matthew so sick, just a room away, this bastard brags about his luxury travel and connections to the rich and famous. Norman had changed after he went to work for Keystone Pharma. He’d sold his soul, but he’d also sacrificed the life-saving drug series that Victor himself had discovered. And now, Matthew needs that drug and can’t get it. Does Norman give a fuck? “Forget it,” Norman’s exact words. Victor would not forget it. He now saw the equation very clearly. Matthew deserves to live. Norman deserves to die. Victor took a deep breath. Retribution.
    Without another word, Victor turned away from Norman and walked out of the ICU.

CHAPTER TWELVE
    T UESDAY , N OVEMBER 26
A TLANTA
    Charles Scarlett had no chauffeur—he wanted his comings and goings private. Charles’s full-time housekeeper cleaned and cooked, his part-time gardener doubled as a handyman. No wife—never had had one. Parents were quite enough, and his were Atlanta socialites: his father, managing partner of the city’s most prestigious law firm—founded by his own daddy; mother, a debutante from old money with Southern roots dating back before the Civil War.
    Charles was an only child, precocious, but overweight even as a toddler, and from puberty, lacking in libido. Wealthy, aristocratic, educated, but genetics had failed him when it came to physical attributes. He’d ended up on the opposite end of the attractiveness scale from his parents: Rosabelle, a stunning beauty—never mind the fortune she’d invested in products and procedures; Charles Sr.—Chas—tall, lean, with a styled mane of silver hair, the epitome of the genteel politician, business tycoon, blue-blood lawyer. No wonder they were regularly featured in the society pages of the
Atlanta Constitution
.
    But, despite their aura of ostentation and pretentiousness, both parents loved their son, protected him fiercely for all his shortcomings; only in absolute privacy would they allude to Charles’s imperfections. Only once had Charles accidentally penetrated this privacy, a memory that would haunt him forever.
    Tonight he’d appeared dutifully at their home, as he always did for Tuesday dinner, a Scarlett family ritual with gourmet coursesappearing on the candlelit table. He endured a full-court press interrogation by Mother. Uncomfortable enough, but not as bad as retiring with Father to the library, to smoke a foul-smelling cigar and to try to act as if they were good old buddies. Charles had to admit, he had nothing in common with either parent. Except for one particular passion: all three Scarletts were true patriots, pledged to support the fundamental principles of American civilization, liberty, justice, and national safety.
    Charles had known with certainty that this Tuesday evening would not go well. And sure enough, as if on cue, Mother asked about his job. They’d find out soon enough, so he’d told them about Stacy Jones’s promotion. Yes, he would now have a black woman, one year his junior, as his supervisor. This would bring shame on his parents, he knew, but what choice did he have until he transferred into another department?
    Mother’s hands flew immediately to her neck, and her face turned pale. For a moment no one spoke. Then Mother cleared her throat and said, “Charles, did you say