Chapter 4 - THE MAN I THOUGHT I KNEW
My father had been dead for eleven years.
George Bennett.
Accountant.
Quiet man.
Golf on Sundays.
Never missed a birthday.
At least that was who I remembered.
Martin gave me a folder with his name.
George Bennett, MD.
I stared.
“No.”
“He was a physician before becoming a finance executive.”
“My father never practiced medicine.”
“He did.”
“When?”
“Before you were born.”
I looked at Naomi.
She nodded.
“He worked in pharmaceutical research.”
My entire childhood shifted.
“What does that have to do with this house?”
Martin opened the flash drive.
Old clinical protocols.
Pain management.
Experimental opioids.
Behavioral dependency studies.
My father’s signature appeared on several.
I felt sick.
“Richard found these?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Five years ago.”
The year he secretly kept Hawthorne Street.
“Why would he restart them?”
“Money.”
Of course.
But Naomi shook her head.
“Not just money.”
“What else?”
“Your father found something.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“A formulation that reduced pain without respiratory suppression.”
“That sounds good.”
“It was.”
“Then why hide it?”
“Because it also caused neurological changes in some patients.”
“What kind?”
“Memory disruption. emotional flattening. impulsivity.”
My stomach tightened.
“And Richard is testing it?”
“Yes.”
“Illegally.”
“Yes.”
Martin added:
“He believes the side effects can be controlled.”
I laughed.
“Based on what?”
“Your father’s later notes.”
I looked at him.
“Later notes?”
“He continued research privately.”
“Until when?”
“Until he died.”
My father supposedly died of a heart attack.
Suddenly I hated that phrase.
“What really happened?”
Martin hesitated.
“Richard says heart attack.”
“That is not what I asked.”
Naomi spoke.
“Your father had high levels of the experimental compound in his blood.”
Silence.
I stared.
“You’re saying he was poisoned.”
“Maybe.”
“With his own drug.”
“Yes.”
My hands went cold.
“Who had access?”
Martin looked at me.
“Your mother.”
I laughed.
“No.”
“Claire—”
“My mother lives in Arizona and grows tomatoes.”
“She also worked with your father.”
I felt physically dizzy.
This story had apparently decided no one in my family was allowed one career.
“Doing what?”
“Clinical operations.”
My mother had told me she managed a dental office.
Not research.
Not pharmaceuticals.
“Does Richard know?”
“Yes.”
“Does she know he restarted the trials?”
Martin shook his head.
“I don’t think so.”
My phone rang.
Mom.
I almost dropped it.
I answered.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
Her voice sounded normal.
Too normal.
“Mom.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Did Dad work in pharmaceutical research?”
Silence.
That was my answer.
I closed my eyes.
“Mom.”
“Where are you?”
“Hawthorne Street.”
The line went dead silent.
Then she whispered:
“Get out.”
My skin prickled.
“Why?”
“Claire, leave the house now.”
“Why?”
“Because Richard isn’t running that clinic for himself.”
My pulse changed.
“Then who?”
She lowered her voice.
“Your uncle.”
I frowned.
“I don’t have an uncle.”
“Yes, you do.”
“What’s his name?”
A sound behind her.
A door.
Mom stopped speaking.
“Mom?”
Then a man’s voice came through.
“Hello, Claire.”
Older.
Calm.
I had never heard it before.
He said:
“My name is Victor Bennett.”
May you like
Then he added:
“And Richard works for me.”
