Chapter 8 - MY FATHER’S LAST WEEK
My father, Robert Reeves, died at sixty-eight after what we were told was a massive stroke.
It happened at home.
Margaret found him.
Leonard was the first person she called.
I arrived forty minutes later.
By then, the private doctor had already signed the initial paperwork.
At the time, none of that felt strange.
Now every detail did.
Detective Ruiz asked for the name of the doctor.
“Dr. Vincent Cole.”
She typed it into her tablet.
Her eyebrows rose.
“What?”
“Cole lost his license last year.”
“For what?”
“Falsifying controlled-medication records.”
The room went quiet.
Grace sat near the window, twisting a handkerchief.
“I remember medication bottles,” she said.
I looked at her.
“What bottles?”
“Your father took blood pressure medicine. During his final week, Margaret started giving it to him herself. She said the nurse kept making mistakes.”
“Did he get worse?”
“Yes.”
Ruiz asked, “Did Mr. Reeves ever tell you he felt unsafe?”
Grace nodded slowly.
“The night he gave me the records-room key, he said, ‘If I become confused, do not assume I am sick.’”
A pressure built behind my ribs.
I had visited Dad two days before he died. He looked tired, but clear. Then he said something I had forgotten.
“Your mother cares too much about who controls what comes next.”
I thought he meant the company.
Maybe he meant the child.
Ruiz stood. “I’m going to request an exhumation review.”
Before she reached the door, an alarm sounded from the east wing.
Grace jumped.
I ran upstairs.
Noah’s nursery door was open.
His crib was empty.
For one second, I couldn’t breathe.
Then I heard a car engine outside.
I looked through the window.
May you like
Margaret’s black sedan was tearing down the driveway.
And in the back seat, someone was holding my son.
