Chapter 5 - THE THERAPY SESSIONS THAT NEVER HAPPENED
Vincent Orsini didn't deny that Elena's signature had been copied.
That was the frightening part.
He simply folded his hands and said, “Elena, after the accident, you authorized me to handle certain administrative matters. Your signature was kept on file.”
Elena stared at him.
“You used my signature without asking me?”
“To keep the fund operating.”
“For three years?”
Vincent looked toward Roman.
“Someone had to make decisions while this family was grieving.”
Roman's expression darkened.
“You were supposed to manage the accounts, Vincent. Not impersonate my sister.”
A muscle tightened in Vincent's jaw.
For the first time, his composure slipped.
“I kept your mother's foundation alive while you were busy running the rest of your empire.”
Roman took one step toward him.
“Careful.”
Vincent didn't retreat.
“No, Roman. You need to hear this. Your mother built that fund with her own hands. When she died, donors withdrew, bills piled up, and families still needed help.”
His voice softened.
“My wife needed treatment, too. Do you remember how many nights Lucia sat with us at the hospital? I have never forgotten what she did for my family.”
Elena's anger weakened slightly.
She remembered Vincent's wife, Margaret.
A gentle woman who had brought homemade Christmas cookies to the mansion for years.
Margaret had developed a serious neurological illness, and Vincent had spent much of his personal savings on her care.
It explained why he might fear losing money.
It did not explain why he was stealing Elena's signature.
“Then let me see every account,” Elena said.
Vincent nodded.
“Of course.”
“All the payments. All the authorizations. Everything.”
There was a pause.
Then he said, “I'll have the records prepared.”
Roman held out his hand.
“Your access to Elena's authorization account is suspended until we finish reviewing it.”
Vincent stared at him.
“After everything I've done for this family?”
“Especially after everything you've done.”
Vincent picked up his coat.
At the doorway, he turned to Elena.
“Your mother trusted me.”
Elena met his eyes.
“Then you should have treated her trust more carefully.”
He left without another word.
I thought that would be the end of our discoveries for the day.
I was wrong.
That evening, Elena insisted on examining the financial records already available through her personal patient portal and the foundation's online archive.
Roman wanted an accountant to handle it.
She refused.
“I can read numbers, Roman.”
“I know.”
“Then stop acting surprised.”
I sat beside her at the piano while she scrolled through the records on her tablet.
For almost an hour, we found nothing unusual.
Then Elena stopped.
“What's this?”
I leaned closer.
A payment had been made to a rehabilitation provider called Lakeshore Recovery Services.
The description read:
IN-HOME MOBILITY AND MUSIC THERAPY.
Elena frowned.
“I've never heard of them.”
I looked at the date.
“Maybe it was right after you came home?”
She shook her head.
“No. Look.”
There were more payments.
Two every month.
Each one claimed that Elena had received private rehabilitation sessions.
Some described adaptive piano lessons.
Others listed wheelchair mobility training.
I felt an uneasy tightening in my chest.
“Elena, did somebody come here to work with you?”
“Not from that company.”
“Did you receive music therapy?”
Her expression changed.
“No.”
I scrolled farther down.
There were dozens of claims.
Every single one had been marked completed.
I tried to keep my voice calm.
“How long has this been happening?”
Elena checked the dates.
“Since the year after the accident.”
I looked toward the closed door.
Someone had been collecting money for services Elena had never received.
Money intended to help injured people recover their independence.
And the person supposedly approving those payments was Elena herself.
She stared at the screen.
“Roman pays for everything I need. At least that's what he keeps telling me.”
“Maybe he thinks you're receiving these services.”
Elena's eyes filled.
“Every time I asked about trying something new, Vincent said the doctors wanted me to wait.”
She swallowed.
“And every time Roman asked whether I needed anything, I told him no, because I thought the doctors had already decided.”
I placed my hand beside hers.
Neither of us spoke.
Then Elena whispered, “I wasn't refusing help. Somebody was telling everyone I didn't want it.”
That was worse than missing money.
Someone had built an entire story around Elena's life.
And everyone had believed it.
While we searched through her old rehabilitation calendar, a small cream-colored card slipped from between the pages.
Elena picked it up.
“I haven't seen this in years.”
It was an appointment card from her mother's desk.
On the front, written in Lucia DeLuca's handwriting, were three lines.
RUTH CALDER.
FINANCIAL REVIEW.
8:30 P.M. — JUNE 12.
Elena's fingers tightened.
“That's the night Mom died.”
I turned the card over.
There was an office address in downtown Chicago.
I frowned.
“Elena, where was your mother driving when the accident happened?”
“Across the river, toward South Pier.”
“Why?”
She looked at me.
“Vincent said her accountant had moved their meeting there.”
May you like
I slowly placed the appointment card beside the fraudulent therapy records.
“Then why was your mother's accountant waiting on the opposite side of Chicago?”
