Chapter 8 - THE DOCTOR WHO WANTED VINCENT DEAD
Elias Mercer disappeared before we reached him.
His clinic canceled appointments.
Phone off.
House empty.
Passport used twelve hours earlier.
Flight:
Montreal.
From there, unknown.
He had been preparing.
That meant someone warned him.
Who?
Owen swore it wasn’t him.
Dominic had not contacted anyone.
Only a small circle knew.
Me.
Clara.
Dominic.
Owen.
Two investigators.
And—
Dr. Mercer’s name had appeared in Matteo’s old medical records, which we had recently requested.
Someone at the hospital could have alerted him.
Then Clara found something in those records.
Matteo’s initial spinal injury was classified incomplete.
After surgery, prognosis guarded but hopeful.
Three months later, the language shifted.
Functionally complete.
Poor prognosis.
Why?
Clinical progression.
Maybe.
But one sentence stood out.
PATIENT DISPLAYS MINIMAL RESPONSE TO INTENSIVE STIMULATION; FURTHER MOTOR RECOVERY UNLIKELY.
Clara frowned.
“What?”
“My son doesn’t speak, but he understands.”
“Yes.”
“Why mention intensive stimulation?”
“Maybe rehab testing.”
She read further.
Medication history.
High doses of antispasmodics.
Sedatives.
Pain medication.
Matteo’s legs were paralyzed because of real injury.
No doubt.
But Clara noticed something else.
The doses during his first six months were unusually heavy for a child of his size.
Not necessarily wrong.
But enough to make him sleepy and less engaged in therapy.
“Who prescribed most of it?”
Mercer.
My pulse changed.
“Could that have harmed recovery?”
“I don’t know.”
Important answer.
“Maybe they were appropriate. We need a pediatric spinal specialist.”
We brought one in.
Dr. Hannah Lewis.
Independent.
Boston.
She examined Matteo slowly.
No promises.
No miracle language.
After two hours, she sat with me.
“Your son has a severe T8 injury.”
I knew.
“He is unlikely to regain normal leg function.”
I knew.
Then:
“But his rehabilitation potential was probably underestimated.”
My breath stopped.
“What does that mean?”
“Upper-body strength. transfers. balance. adaptive mobility. potentially some trunk control beyond what he has developed.”
“Walking?”
“Do not build hope around walking.”
Direct.
I respected her immediately.
“He can build independence.”
That mattered more.
Then she reviewed medication.
“Some doses were aggressive.”
“Wrong?”
“Not necessarily. But I would have adjusted earlier.”
Clara sat beside me.
“What about mood?”
Hannah looked at Matteo through the window.
“A child cannot rehabilitate while treated like a tragedy.”
Knife.
Same as Clara.
Then she said:
“I want him in a pediatric program twice a week.”
I agreed before asking price.
Old habit.
Then Matteo spoke from the doorway.
“No.”
We turned.
He had rolled himself there silently.
Hannah smiled.
“Why not?”
“Dad watches.”
I froze.
“What?”
Matteo looked at me.
“All the time.”
The cameras.
Of course.
The system I built to protect him had become another cage.
Hannah asked:
“Do you want privacy?”
He nodded.
Then looked directly at me.
“Mom hated cameras.”
My chest tightened.
I had installed most of them after she died.
He continued:
“She said Uncle Owen watched us.”
No.
Before the explosion?
“What do you mean?”
Matteo looked at Clara.
Then whispered:
“Mom found a camera in her room.”
May you like
Everything inside me went cold.
Someone had been surveilling Elena inside our home before the bombing.
