Chapter 4 - THE DOCTOR WHO SOLD MY SANITY
Nothing prepares you for discovering that the man monitoring your baby's heartbeat may have been helping your husband steal your life.
I sat in another obstetrician's office the next morning while a nurse checked Emma's heartbeat.
Strong.
Regular.
Beautiful.
I cried for the first time.
Not because something was wrong.
Because something wasn't.
My daughter was okay.
That gave me somewhere to put my fear.
When the exam ended, my new doctor reviewed my records.
Then frowned.
“What's wrong?”
“There are notes here I didn't expect.”
“What notes?”
She turned the screen slightly.
Seven weeks earlier, Dr. Cross had written:
Patient reports memory lapses.
I had never reported that.
Then:
Patient admits irrational suspicion of spouse.
Never happened.
Then:
Monitor postpartum psychological stability.
My stomach turned.
He had been creating a medical trail.
Gavin hadn't started preparing after I discovered him.
He had started weeks earlier.
Maybe months.
Claire subpoenaed financial records connected to Westhaven.
The pattern became uglier.
Payments to Dr. Cross.
Payments to a private evaluator.
Payments to a family-law consultant.
Gavin had been planning something.
The question was what.
Then June remembered something.
“Your life insurance.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“You increased it after you got pregnant.”
I had.
Two million dollars.
Not because Gavin asked.
Because becoming a mother had scared me into planning for every disaster.
Gavin was the primary beneficiary.
I called the insurer.
No changes had been made.
That should have relieved me.
It didn't.
Because Claire found something else.
Six weeks earlier, Gavin had contacted the insurance company claiming to be acting on my behalf.
He asked about payout requirements following “accidental pregnancy-related death.”
The representative refused to discuss details because I hadn't authorized him.
I felt physically sick.
Claire held up a hand.
“That does not prove he intended to hurt you.”
“I know.”
But it proved he had imagined the question.
That evening, Lorraine—Gavin's mother—came to see me.
She stood in my foyer holding a folder.
“I should have given you this months ago.”
Her face looked exhausted.
“What is it?”
“Gavin's financial records.”
“Why do you have them?”
“He borrowed money from me.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred thousand.”
I stared.
“For what?”
“He said his business had a temporary cash-flow problem.”
Westhaven.
The loans.
The house.
Lorraine's eyes filled.
“I believed him.”
She opened the folder.
Inside were bank transfers.
One was to Maren.
$43,000.
Another to Dr. Cross.
$85,000.
Then a third payment.
$125,000 to a company called Brightstone Placement Services.
Claire searched it.
It wasn't a medical company.
It wasn't real estate.
It specialized in long-term residential psychiatric facilities.
May you like
And three months earlier, Gavin had requested an intake packet.
For me.
