Chapter 3 – THE SIGNATURE FROM INTENSIVE CARE

“That doesn’t mean the form is false,” Dante said.

Emily looked at him.

He was still holding the termination notice, his thumb pressed against Victor’s signature.

“I know.”

“I might have signed something before I lost consciousness.”

“That’s possible.”

“Or afterward.”

“Also possible.”

He gave her a sharp look.

“You’re making this very difficult.”

“I’m trying not to tell you something I can’t prove.”

Dante lowered the paper.

For a man accustomed to having every question answered immediately, uncertainty was clearly uncomfortable.

But Emily wasn’t going to manufacture certainty to make him feel better.

“Let me ask you something,” she said. “Do you remember wanting to stop therapy?”

“No.”

“Do you remember refusing it?”

“Not before the hospitalization.”

“And afterward?”

Dante looked toward the window.

“Afterward, I could barely lift my arms. I thought I’d lost everything I’d gained.”

“Who explained your options?”

“Victor. Harlan. Eventually a rehabilitation consultant.”

“Did you meet that consultant?”

Dante hesitated.

“I don’t remember.”

Emily sat opposite him.

“Then there are questions worth asking.”

He looked down at the document again.

“My brother’s name is on every important decision I’ve made since the accident.”

“Did you choose that?”

“At first.”

The answer surprised her.

Dante leaned back.

“When our father died, I was running three businesses and fighting with half the men in Chicago. Victor handled the accounts. I handled the people.”

“And after the accident?”

“I couldn’t handle much of anything.”

“That doesn’t mean you weren’t capable of making decisions.”

“I know that now.”

His voice became colder.

“But back then, I was in pain. I was taking medication that made the walls move. I signed whatever they put in front of me because I trusted my brother to understand what I couldn’t.”

Emily knew better than to answer too quickly.

Trust wasn’t stupidity.

And admitting misplaced trust could humiliate a man more deeply than admitting physical weakness.

The next morning, Dante requested his complete medical file.

Not a summary.

Not the reports Victor usually selected.

Every available record, from the original injury through his most recent treatment.

Victor arrived in the library shortly after breakfast.

He looked at the signed request on Dante’s desk.

“What’s this?”

“My authorization to release my medical records.”

“To whom?”

“Me.”

Victor gave a strained smile.

“You already have copies.”

“Then getting the rest shouldn’t be difficult.”

Dr. Harlan followed him inside.

He was a silver-haired physician with a pleasant voice and the permanently distracted expression of a man accustomed to leaving difficult conversations to other people.

“Dante, I understand you’re concerned about your treatment.”

“I’m concerned about whether I’ve been receiving the treatment I agreed to.”

Harlan glanced at Victor.

Emily noticed.

Dante noticed too.

“Look at me,” Dante said.

The doctor turned back.

“Of course.”

Dante pointed to the rehabilitation termination.

“Why does this say I refused therapy while I was hospitalized?”

Harlan adjusted his glasses.

“The decision was made during a period of medical instability.”

“By whom?”

“Your care team, with family involvement.”

“Then why does the form say I personally elected to stop?”

Harlan looked at the document.

“That may be a clerical error.”

“A seven-year-old clerical error?”

“It happens.”

Dante sat very still.

“Fine. Correct it.”

The doctor blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“If it’s an error, issue a correction and preserve the original.”

Harlan looked uncomfortable.

“I would need to review the underlying records.”

“Then do that.”

Victor stepped forward.

“Dante, this isn’t productive.”

His brother ignored him.

“Dr. Harlan, what exactly are the injections you prescribe for me?”

The physician’s expression tightened.

“They’re part of your symptom-management regimen.”

“Which medication?”

Harlan listed two treatments Emily recognized as commonly used for muscle-related symptoms.

Neither explained the unidentified blue syringes.

Dante asked the obvious question.

“Where are those medications dispensed?”

“Through a contracted pharmacy.”

“And are they supposed to be blue?”

Harlan hesitated.

“I would need to inspect the product.”

Victor looked furious.

Emily understood why.

For the first time, Dante was asking questions neither man could redirect with vague reassurances.

“Then inspect it,” Dante said.

Victor reluctantly unlocked the cabinet.

The insulated pouch was still inside.

Harlan examined the sealed sleeves without opening them.

His expression changed almost imperceptibly.

“I don’t recognize this packaging.”

Victor spoke immediately.

“It’s from the specialty supplier.”

“What specialty supplier?” Harlan asked.

There was a small silence.

Victor recovered.

“The one your office recommended.”

Harlan looked at him.

“My office doesn’t arrange medication deliveries directly to this house.”

Emily watched Dante absorb the contradiction.

Nobody had accused anyone of a crime.

Nobody had proven what the liquid contained.

But two men who supposedly managed one coordinated treatment plan couldn’t agree on where the medication came from.

Dante reached for his notebook.

“Dr. Harlan, when did you last examine me in person?”

“Recently.”

“Give me a date.”

Harlan looked at Victor again.

“Your care has been monitored continuously.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

The doctor sighed.

“I believe it was early last month.”

Dante turned to Emily.

“Would you check the appointment calendar on the desk?”

She opened the leather planner.

There were entries for Harlan’s visits, written in neat block letters.

Four the previous month.

Six the month before.

Dante looked at the dates.

“Who wrote those?”

Victor answered.

“I did. I maintain your schedule.”

“According to this, Harlan examined me last Thursday.”

“He did.”

“No,” Dante said. “Last Thursday I was here with Emily and Lily.”

Victor’s jaw tightened.

“He came in the morning.”

Emily remembered the morning clearly.

She’d been cleaning the library when Dante spilled coffee over the newspaper.

Nobody had entered the room until lunch.

She spoke carefully.

“I was with Mr. Moretti from eight until eleven-thirty. Dr. Harlan didn’t come.”

Victor turned toward her.

“Mrs. Carter, you were hired to perform household duties, not monitor visitors.”

Harlan closed his medical bag.

“I think we should arrange a formal review.”

Dante looked at him.

“Excellent. By an independent physician.”

The doctor said nothing.

Dante turned back to his brother.

“Who has been administering my injections?”

Victor folded his arms.

“Qualified private-care personnel.”

“Names.”

“Dante—”

“Names.”

Victor stared at him.

Then Dante asked the question that made Emily’s blood run cold.

“If Harlan hasn’t been coming here, who has been putting that medication into my body?”

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