They Tried to Kill Me Quietly, Now I’m Coming Back Loud

Poison and Betrayal

Chapter 6

The small house Esteban shared with his mother sat at the end of a narrow alley in one of Edinberton's older neighborhoods. The paint was peeling, the roof leaked when it rained, but it was home—the only home he and his mother Hilda had after his father's death fifteen years ago.

As Esteban approached the front door, he heard it—a wet, hacking cough that sent ice through his veins. Not just any cough. The sound was wrong, labored, with a gurgling quality that spoke of fluid in the lungs.

He burst through the door to find his mother bent double in the kitchen, one hand braced against the counter, the other pressed to her mouth. When she pulled it away, her palm was stained with blood.

"Mom!" Esteban rushed forward, catching her as her legs buckled. "What happened? How long has this been going on?"

"Esteban?" Hilda looked up at him with watery eyes, her face pale and drawn. "You're home. I'm fine, sweetheart. Just a cough. Old age, you know." She tried to smile, but another coughing fit seized her, spattering more blood onto her hand.

Esteban half-carried, half-dragged her to her bedroom, his mind racing. The inherited medical knowledge was already analyzing what he was seeing—the color of the blood, the quality of the cough, the pallor of her skin, the trembling in her limbs. This wasn't pneumonia or tuberculosis or any natural illness.

This was poison.

He eased her onto the bed, his hands surprisingly steady despite the fear clawing at his chest. "Mom, let me check your pulse. Don't move."

"Check my pulse?" Hilda's eyes widened slightly as Esteban pressed his fingers to her wrist. "Sweetheart, do you... do you know how to treat illnesses now?"

Esteban felt the truth of her condition flowing through his fingertips like ice water. Her qi was depleted, her blood toxic, her organs slowly failing under the assault of whatever poison was coursing through her system. After a long pause, he forced himself to speak calmly. "I really can. I guess... I've learned a bit from being ill myself."

The words came out steady, controlled, but inside his mind was screaming. This wasn't coincidence. His own mysterious illness—the one that had drained their savings, destroyed his body, and nearly killed him—might not have been an illness at all. It might have been poison too. The same poison, or something similar.

Someone had deliberately tried to kill him. And now they were killing his mother.

The realization hit him like a physical blow, and he had to focus on breathing evenly to keep from showing his panic.

"Sweetheart, why were you out all night?" Hilda tried to push herself up on her elbows, maternal concern overriding her own pain. "Miranda called looking for you. She was so worried. Are you alright? Did something happen?"

"I'm fine, Mom. Don't worry about me." Esteban gently pushed her back down. "When did you start coughing up blood? And have you eaten anything unusual recently? Any new foods, any medicine?"

Hilda's expression flickered—a shadow of something that might have been guilt or shame crossing her weathered features. She sighed heavily. "At first it was just a cough. A dry tickle in my throat, nothing serious. But it got worse and worse over the past few weeks."

"What else?" Esteban pressed, his heart pounding. "You said medicine. What medicine?"

"Well..." Hilda looked away, not meeting his eyes. "You remember that day about a month ago when Miranda came to visit while you were at the hospital? She heard me coughing, and the next day she sent over some medicine. Traditional herbs, she said. To strengthen the lungs and clear the airways." A soft smile touched her lips. "It was so thoughtful of her. She's been such a good daughter-in-law, Esteban. Even with all your medical bills, she still thought to care for me."

Esteban's hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms hard enough to draw blood. Miranda. Of course it was Miranda. The woman who'd been cheating on him, who'd pressured him to give up treatment and die quietly, who'd betrayed him in every way possible—she'd also been poisoning his mother.

Before, some small, pathetic part of him had still felt guilty about hitting her in that hotel hallway. That guilt evaporated like water on hot coals, replaced by cold, burning rage.

"Where are those medicines?" His voice came out harsher than intended, making Hilda flinch. "Do you still have any?"

"There are some left." Hilda's brow furrowed with concern at his tone. "They were so bitter, I couldn't finish them all. Why? Is something wrong?"

"Just show me. Please."

Hilda struggled to sit up, and Esteban helped her to her feet. She shuffled to her dresser, pulled open the top drawer, and retrieved a small cloth packet tied with string. "Here. But Esteban, what—"

He took the packet with trembling fingers and carefully untied the string. The dried herbs inside looked innocuous enough—dark, twisted roots and leaves that could have been any number of medicinal plants. But the moment he saw them, the inherited knowledge slammed into his consciousness with absolute certainty.

His pupils contracted sharply.

Soul-Snapping Grass.

Even the name was sinister. This wasn't a medicine—it was a death sentence wrapped in good intentions. Soul-Snapping Grass was one of the most insidious poisons in existence. Ingested regularly, it would cause a slow, agonizing death within a month as it depleted the body's vital energy and corrupted the blood. Victims appeared to die from natural causes—organ failure, weakness, disease. The poison was easily absorbed and decomposed by the body, making it virtually undetectable even in autopsies.

Perfect for murder disguised as natural death.

Esteban's mind raced. This herb was extremely rare, almost impossible to find without specialized knowledge. Miranda couldn't have obtained it herself—she barely knew the difference between aspirin and antibiotics. Someone had given it to her. Someone who knew exactly what they were doing. Someone who was skilled at this kind of thing.

The timeline clicked into place with horrifying clarity. A month ago, he'd discovered his mysterious illness. Around the same time, Miranda had started poisoning his mother. Then she'd pressured him to abandon treatment, to come home and die quietly. If he'd listened, if he'd given up, both he and his mother would have died within weeks of each other. Natural causes, everyone would say. Such a tragedy. And Miranda would have inherited everything—the house, whatever savings remained, everything.

What a cruel, calculating woman. And she hadn't acted alone.

Esteban forced his face into a calm expression and turned to his mother with a gentle smile. "Mom, you can't take this medicine anymore. Don't take another dose, understand? It's not good for you."

"But Miranda said—"

"I know what Miranda said, but I have a better treatment for you. I'll get proper medicine tomorrow, and you'll feel better soon. Trust me."

Hilda reached out and rubbed his hand, her touch papery and weak. "It's not about me, sweetheart. I'm old—if I die, I die. But you and Miranda... you can't get divorced. Marriage is sacred. You need to apologize to her, work things out." Her voice cracked with emotion. "Your father died so young, and it's been just you and me for so long. I've always relied on you, always put you first. Miranda is family now. Don't throw that away over some argument."

Each word was a knife in Esteban's chest. His mother had no idea. She thought Miranda was thoughtful, caring, a good daughter-in-law. She had no clue that the woman she was defending had been systematically poisoning her to death.

"I'll take care of everything, Mom. Don't worry." Esteban couldn't tell her the truth. Her condition was too fragile—the shock might kill her faster than the poison. "Just rest now. Let me handle things."

After settling his mother in bed, Esteban retreated to his own small room. Sleep was impossible. He lay on his narrow bed, staring at the water-stained ceiling, his mind churning with dark thoughts.

His mother's illness was severe. The Soul-Snapping Grass had already done significant damage. Some of the medicines required to treat her would be expensive—precious herbs and rare ingredients that would cost far more than what remained of their meager savings. Even with the knowledge of how to cure her, he lacked the means to obtain the necessary components.

Money. Everything came back to money. Without it, knowledge was useless. Without it, his mother would die.

After divorcing Miranda and taking whatever revenge he could manage, his top priority had to be making money. A lot of money. Enough to get his mother proper treatment, enough to survive, enough to build a life that didn't hang by a thread every single day.

But how? He was sick, weak, with no job and no prospects. The only thing he had was this strange inheritance—medical knowledge that seemed impossibly vast and precise. Could he use it somehow? Treat patients? But he had no credentials, no reputation, nothing to convince people to trust him.

Questions without answers chased themselves through his mind until exhaustion finally dragged him into fitful sleep.

The next morning, Esteban woke before dawn. His body ached from Enrique's beating, his ribs protesting with every breath, but he forced himself up. His mother was still sleeping, her breathing raspy and shallow. He prepared a simple breakfast of congee and pickled vegetables, leaving it covered on the table where she'd find it when she woke.

He was washing the rice pot when his phone rang. Miranda's name flashed on the screen.

For a moment, he considered not answering. Then he thought better of it. Better to know what she wanted, to hear what lies would come out of her mouth now.

"Hello?"

"Esteban! Oh my God, where were you last night?" Miranda's voice dripped with fake concern, so syrupy it made his stomach turn. "I was so worried when you didn't come home. Are you alright? Did something happen?"

Home. She'd actually used that word. As if he still had a home to return to, as if she hadn't destroyed everything they'd built together.

Esteban's lip curled into a cold sneer. "Does it matter where I was?"

"Of course it matters! I'm your wife. I worry about you." A pause, then her tone shifted slightly, becoming more business-like. "Listen, you need to come home. Today. We have something important to discuss."

"Do we?" Esteban kept his voice flat, emotionless.

"Yes. It's about... our future. About moving forward. Just come home, okay? Please?"

Esteban almost laughed. Moving forward. What a choice of words. "Fine. I'll come."

"Really? Oh, thank goodness. When—"

"This afternoon. I'll be there." He hung up before she could say anything else.

His decision was made. Today, he would divorce Miranda. He'd get whatever proof he could of her infidelity, make sure she couldn't claim any more from him than she'd already taken. As for revenge for poisoning his mother? That would have to wait.

He currently had no power, no influence, no resources to truly make her pay. But that would change. He'd find a way to build something from nothing, to gain the strength needed to bring her and whoever was helping her to justice.