Page 188 of Yearn
Just in case that gun wasn’t empty, I moved fast, crossing the distance in three strides. My hand came down hard on his wrist, smacking the gun away before his fingers could close around it.
The weapon clattered to the floor.
More bullets scattered like dropped coins, rolling under furniture.
Scott staggered backward, hitting the bookshelf. His mouth opened but only a wheeze came out.
I sneered at him. “You will never get to hurt them again. Never get to make Teyonah feel small or make J feel insecure about their body. Oliver will forget about you soon. I’m going to make sure that you never talk to them again."
"Y-you can't. . .do this."
"I can." I glanced at the briefcase on the desk—still open, contents visible. A small plastic bag half full with white powder. There was residue on the desk as if he'd been too lazy to clean up after he'd done a few lines.
My blood went cold.
I considered how Oliver—so young and with a crazy sweet tooth—could have come down into this office while Scott was sleeping and licked it...thinking the contents were sugar.
My chest tightened.
The medical scenarios ran through my mind automatically.
A child Oliver's age, maybe forty pounds soaking wet. Cocaine's LD50 in children—lethal dose for 50% of the population—was around 15-20 milligrams per kilogram. That meant less than a gram could kill him. And there were several grams sitting right there, within reach, looking innocent as powdered sugar.
First, Oliver would get the immediate rush. His tiny heart—that perfect little heart that beat so fast when he was excited about dinosaurs or Bushy Bear socks—would start racing.
Tachycardia, 180, 200 beats per minute.
His blood pressure would spike.
Then the real damage would start.
Hyperthermia.
His small body couldn't regulate temperature the way an adult's could. He'd burn from the inside, temperature climbing to 104, 105, higher. Seizures would follow—his brain misfiring, body convulsing on this floor while Scott slept off his high upstairs.
His airways could close.
Cardiac arrest could follow within minutes.
I'd seen it during my ER rotation—a teenager who'd tried cocaine at a party.
My supervising doctor had coded him for forty minutes. His mother's screaming still lived in my nightmares.
Oliver wouldn't even understand what was happening to him. He'd just know something was terribly wrong, and he'd cry for his mommy.
My hands curled back into fists.
He could have died. Right here in this office.
Because Scott was too fucking selfish, too reckless, too goddamn high to consider that his children lived in this house.
That shit made me so fucking sick.
I wanted to kill Scott.
Wanted it with a clarity that should have terrified me.
My hands were already imagining the pressure points—carotid compression, tracheal crush, the precise angle to make it look like he'd fallen in his drug-addled state.
