Chapter 2 - THE DRUG THAT PUT ME IN THE WHEELCHAIR
I had been twenty-four when the car went over the embankment.
My father died.
I survived.
Doctors said the spinal injury was permanent.
Incomplete nerve damage.
Unusual.
Complicated.
Final.
For fourteen years, I had believed the same thing.
Now Nancy stood at the foot of my bed holding a record I had never seen.
“What drug?”
She handed it to me.
The name meant nothing.
Megan leaned closer.
“Muscle relaxant?”
Nancy nodded.
“In very high doses, it can temporarily suppress motor response.”
I looked at her.
“Temporarily.”
“Yes.”
My voice became quieter.
“Then why am I still in this chair?”
Nancy swallowed.
“That’s what I don’t understand.”
I looked at Megan.
She did not look away.
Good.
Dr. Hayes had taken over my medical care twelve years earlier.
Two years after the crash.
He supervised every scan.
Every treatment.
Every specialist.
Every declaration that improvement was impossible.
I felt something old and ugly begin to rise.
Not anger.
Betrayal.
“Call Hayes.”
Nancy did.
No answer.
“Security.”
My chief of security, Marcus Vale, entered within minutes.
Tall.
Silent.
Former military.
Trusted for fifteen years.
I handed him the vial.
“Find Hayes.”
Marcus looked at Megan.
Then the baby.
His expression changed slightly.
“Was she here all night?”
“Yes.”
Megan looked offended.
“Why?”
Marcus answered:
“Because Dr. Hayes said she tried to interfere with your treatment.”
I stared.
“He called you?”
“At 4:02.”
“What did he say?”
“That Ms. Foster was unstable.”
Megan barked a laugh.
“Creative.”
Marcus continued.
“He said she became hysterical and stole medication.”
I looked at her.
“You did steal it.”
“Yes.”
“Still.”
Her mouth twitched.
Then Marcus added:
“Hayes asked me to remove her from the estate.”
“And why didn’t you?”
“Nancy refused.”
I looked at Nancy.
She folded her arms.
“I have been here since before Marcus learned to shave.”
Marcus sighed.
“Accurate.”
My attention returned to the chart.
The same drug.
The crash.
My father.
My legs.
Then I noticed something else.
The original toxicology entry had been amended.
Two signatures.
The first belonged to an emergency physician.
The second:
DR. WARREN HAYES.
But Hayes had not been my doctor then.
“How did he sign this?”
Nancy answered:
“He was working at the hospital.”
My blood chilled.
He had been there the night my father died.
Before I ever hired him.
Megan looked at me.
“You knew him before?”
“No.”
At least I thought I didn’t.
Marcus took the file.
His face changed.
“What?”
He pointed to the admitting physician code.
WH-17.
Hayes.
Then another line.
Family authorization received from E. Mason.
I stopped breathing.
There was only one E. Mason alive that night.
My father’s younger brother.
Elliot Mason.
My uncle.
The man who inherited temporary control of the organization while I recovered.
The man who had insisted Hayes become my private physician.
Megan whispered:
“You think your uncle knew?”
I looked at the old signature.
“No.”
My voice became ice.
“I think my uncle arranged it.”
Then the baby stirred.
Megan lifted him.
His blanket fell aside.
Something silver dropped onto the floor.
A small old pendant.
Nancy gasped.
I looked down.
May you like
The symbol carved into it belonged to my father.
I had not seen it since the night he died.
