Three months had passed since the tea had turned the Titan into a statue.
In the breakfast room of the Croft Estate, the morning sun was blinding, but Lady Beatrice sat with the curtains drawn. At 9:00 AM, her teacup did not contain Earl Grey; it contained a heavy pour of vintage Chardonnay. Her hands, which had been steady enough to dose the Digitalis, now trembled so violently she had to use both to lift the china to her lips.
“Grandmother,” William said, entering the room with his briefcase. “The board meeting is in an hour. We need your signature on the trust documents.”
“I can’t go up there,” Beatrice whispered, staring into her wine. “Don’t make me go up there, William.”
Upstairs, in the Master Suite, the air was stale and heavy. Alistair Croft lay in the center of the king-sized bed, a prisoner in his own body. He was fully conscious. He could feel the itch on his nose he couldn’t scratch. He could hear the hum of the air conditioner. But he could not move a single muscle.
For three months, his world had been the plaster molding on the ceiling. Beatrice, his jailer, had stopped visiting. She had left him in the dark, terrified of the monster she had created. The silence was absolute, a crushing weight that gave him nothing to do but remember every sin he had ever committed.