Chapter 4 - THE DOCTOR WHO KNEW TOO MUCH
The signature looked exactly like mine.
The curve of the G.
The sharp line beneath the V.
Even the little break in the final stroke that had developed after I injured my wrist six years earlier.
Whoever had copied it knew me well.
But one thing was wrong.
I was supposed to sign that document on Monday.
And it was still Friday night.
"Laura," I whispered, "I need that document preserved."
She photographed the screen with her own phone.
Then she placed the original pills she'd collected inside a clean glass jar and wrapped it in a towel.
"Claire says she's coming tomorrow," she told me.
"Rebecca won't let her through the gate."
"Then we'll use the service entrance."
I shook my head.
"Don't risk your job for me."
Laura looked at me with an expression I deserved.
"Mr. Vance, you think I'm worried about my job?"
She sat beside the bed.
"My husband died five years ago. I have one child. That boy has spent more time talking to you than to any other man in this house."
I remembered Leo bringing his school drawings into my study.
I'd been too busy to look at half of them.
"Yesterday," Laura continued, "he asked me why rich people can have everything but still be so lonely."
I couldn't answer.
"He likes you, sir. That's why he was brave enough to bring you that note."
Her voice softened.
"Don't make him regret it."
The following morning, Claire arrived just after eight.
Laura brought her through the garden entrance while the security team was changing shifts.
When my sister entered the bedroom, I almost didn't recognize her.
Her hair had turned silver around the temples.
She wore a plain navy coat and carried a battered leather handbag.
But her eyes were the same.
Sharp.
Unforgiving.
And filled with tears she refused to shed.
"Good Lord, Gabriel."
She crossed the room and touched my shoulder.
"You're half the man you were."
"That's one way to say hello."
She almost smiled.
Then her face changed.
"You look terrible."
"I feel worse."
Claire examined the unopened medication packages Laura had saved.
She photographed the labels and the jar.
"Did the doctor prescribe these personally?"
"Dr. Malcolm Price. He's been handling my care since this started."
"Who hired him?"
"Rebecca."
Claire sat back.
"Of course she did."
She explained that Daniel Whitcomb had recently become a major donor to a private medical group associated with Dr. Price.
The relationship wasn't illegal.
But under the circumstances, it was deeply troubling.
"Daniel's name keeps appearing everywhere," Claire said.
"How much money is missing?"
She looked at me.
"What?"
"From Mother's foundation. The money you were accused of stealing."
Claire opened her handbag.
Inside was a worn photograph of our mother standing outside a children's hospital.
She was smiling beside a group of nurses.
Our mother had spent her final years raising money for sick children.
When she died, I'd promised to continue her work.
"Thirty-eight million dollars," Claire said quietly.
The number took my breath away.
"Daniel told me it was four million."
"He told you I was responsible for four million. The larger transfers happened afterward."
"Why didn't you go to the authorities?"
"I did."
She looked down.
"But Daniel controlled the records. Miles controlled the accounts. And you publicly called me dishonest."
I wanted to apologize.
But two words didn't seem big enough.
Before I could speak, footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Claire quickly slipped the photograph into her coat.
Rebecca appeared.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then my wife smiled.
"Claire. What a surprise."
"Hello, Rebecca."
"I didn't know Gabriel was expecting visitors."
"He wasn't expecting to be poisoned, either."
Rebecca's smile disappeared.
"That's a disgusting accusation."
Claire stepped toward her.
"Then you'll have no objection to an independent physician examining him."
"Dr. Price is coming this morning."
"That's exactly why I object."
Rebecca looked at me.
"You called her?"
"Yes."
"After everything she did to this family?"
"Maybe she didn't do what we believed."
My wife's expression changed.
It wasn't anger anymore.
It was fear.
"Daniel warned me this would happen," she whispered.
Claire folded her arms.
"What did he warn you about?"
Rebecca didn't answer.
Instead, she turned and left.
Ten minutes later, Ophelia entered carrying fresh sheets.
When she saw Claire, her face lost its color.
"Miss Vance."
"Hello, Ophelia."
The house manager had worked for us twelve years.
She had cared for Lily when Rebecca and I needed help.
She'd organized every birthday, holiday, and family dinner.
I trusted her with everything.
Now I watched her hands shake as she folded a pillowcase.
"How's your daughter?" Claire asked.
Ophelia stopped.
"Nora is managing."
"Is she still receiving treatment?"
"Yes."
I looked between them.
"What treatment?"
Ophelia's eyes filled.
"My daughter has a serious kidney condition, sir. She's been getting specialized care for nearly a year."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Her answer broke something inside me.
"Because Mr. Whitcomb told me you wouldn't want to be bothered."
Claire stood.
"Ophelia, who's paying for it?"
The older woman looked toward the doorway.
Then she whispered, "Mrs. Vance."
I understood immediately.
Rebecca had helped Ophelia's daughter.
And Ophelia had helped Rebecca.
"Did they threaten to stop paying?" I asked.
Ophelia began crying.
"I thought the pills would just make you sleep more. I swear that's what they told me."
"Who told you?"
She pressed a hand over her mouth.
Before she could answer, Dr. Price arrived.
He entered with Rebecca behind him, carrying a black medical bag and a thick clipboard.
"Mr. Vance," he said warmly. "I hear you've had a difficult night."
"I want an independent examination."
"We can discuss that."
"No. I want one."
His smile narrowed.
"Your condition may be affecting your judgment."
Claire stepped forward.
"Then document that with proper testing."
Dr. Price looked irritated.
He placed his clipboard on the bedside table while he checked my pulse.
Claire moved closer.
I saw her eyes travel across the top page.
Then she went completely still.
"Doctor," she said, "what day is it?"
"Saturday."
"And what day is tomorrow?"
"Sunday, obviously."
She turned the clipboard toward me.
The document was titled:
CERTIFICATION OF MEDICAL INCAPACITY
My name was printed across the top.
Below it were two statements.
Patient unable to communicate meaningfully.
Patient incapable of making independent medical or financial decisions.
Both were marked as confirmed.
The examination date was Sunday at 9:00 a.m.
Tomorrow.
Dr. Price reached for the clipboard.
Claire pulled it away.
"Explain this."
He said nothing.
Rebecca moved toward the door.
And I finally understood why they had been so careful about my medication.
They weren't waiting for the illness to take its natural course.
They had scheduled the moment I would supposedly lose my mind.
May you like
Then I saw the doctor's handwritten instruction at the bottom.
"Final dose to be administered before Sunday assessment."
