Impossible Choices Trey
Impossible Choices
Trey
Trey watches Agent Sheehan drop the phone, his face a mask.
“What’s happening?”
“There’s been an incident at your house. Multiple agents down.”
“You have to take me with you.”
“No way. You aren’t capable of protecting yourself. Look at you.” Sheehan starts from the room.
“It’s my family.” Trey bites out the words. He’s on his feet now, too. Yes, it hurts, but he’s pumped full of painkillers, bandaged, and supported. “I am going with you.”
Baldwin stands as well. “So am I. I got you into this mess. I’ll help you get out of it.” To Trey: “That program finished running yet?”
“It is. The money has cleared TGG’s accounts.
We’ve got it all.” Almost all, but no one needs to know about the wallets he left for Brooklyn.
They may still be needed, and that’s money Trey earned free and clear.
He was salaried by Gussin and contracted by the FBI, and he used every legitimate dime he could to build them a considerable nest egg.
So long as she has the wallets, they are golden.
“Good. Saddle up.”
Trey is slow but walks to the car under his own steam.
Baldwin is talking rapid-fire into his phone and hangs up as they get to the car.
He stops Trey. “Listen to me. You aren’t any good in a fight right now.
We can’t worry about protecting you and taking down Durov.
But your kids need you. They’re very, very ill.
Brooklyn would want you to be with them.
They’ve been taken to Vanderbilt. I can have you brought to them now. ”
Trey’s anguish must show on his face, because Baldwin’s voice softens. “I get it, man. I’d want to save my woman, too, if it were me. It’s your choice.”
“That’s an impossible fucking choice, and you know it. Drive the damn car. I can’t do anything for the kids, but I can save my wife.”
In the car, Baldwin puts the phone on speaker. “I’ve got the EMTs who transported the kids.”
“Are they okay?” Trey asks.
“They’re being moved into the emergency department right now. Do you have any idea what they might have ingested? It’s some sort of fast-acting poison.”
Something niggles the back of his brain. “What are their symptoms?”
“They were unconscious when I got to them, tachycardic, shallow breathing, pupils dilated. I administered fluids and activated charcoal on the way to the hospital. Now their pressure’s dropping and they’re both having mild tremors. The adult victims were ataxic and vomiting as well.”
That sounds familiar. He thinks of Chloe, of the years she spent with strange symptoms, all the misdiagnoses, only to find out in the end that Eden had been . . .
Realization washes over him. Son of a bitch. Eden.
“Test for liquid nicotine,” Trey says. “Like vaping fluid.”
“Copy that. Thanks for the assist.” He hears the EMT shout, “Do a blood gas and treat for a nicotine overdose—” before the phone clicks off.
“What the hell?” Sheehan asks. “How did you know what to test for?”
“It is a very long story, but when they were young, my former sister-in-law, Eden Barrow, used to slip my wife liquid nicotine to make her sick. She’s got some form of Munchausen by proxy.
She was in and out of mental facilities for years.
I thought she was cured . . . Well, that was stupid of me.
I thought they would be okay so long as Margot was around.
Why is Eden at my house? Why is she in Nashville? ”
Sheehan takes a corner hard, and Trey has to grit his teeth at the pain when he slams against the door.
The agent shakes his head. “She has been with your family pretty much every moment since the accident.”