Chương 12
Hale kept going.
“You were suicidal.”
Hannah’s fingers tightened around my wrist.
I pulled my hand away.
Martin stared at the floor.
Cross closed his eyes.
That truth belonged to a room none of them had entered.
Or so I had believed.
“How do you know that?”
Hale’s voice softened again.
“You told me.”
I said nothing.
“You put a gun on the desk between us.”
The library seemed to disappear.
I remembered the gun.
My father’s old Colt.
Unloaded, though Hale had not known that.
I had wanted him frightened enough to stop saying Emma’s name.
“You told me if there were even a chance of seeing again and it failed, you would not survive another loss.”
The memory returned in pieces.
Hale sitting across from me.
Rain tapping the windows.
My hands shaking.
His voice saying we needed to reduce stimuli, reduce expectations, reduce anything that might trigger another collapse.
He had not invented that night.
That was the worst part.
Hale said, “I made a decision to protect your life.”
I swallowed.
“By not telling me.”
“Yes.”
“About possible recovery.”
“Yes.”
“Did you also decide to keep me on atropine?”
“I decided your ocular comfort mattered more than theoretical function.”
“Theoretical.”
“At the time, yes.”
Cross slammed his palm against the desk.
“Stop saying it like that.”
Hale snapped, “You agreed with me.”
Everything stopped.
I turned toward Cross.
He did not speak.
“Daniel.”
His breathing became audible.
“Did you?”
“I agreed not to tell you about Keene.”
My mouth went dry.
“For how long?”
“I didn’t know.”
“That is not an answer.”
“I thought weeks.”
“You thought.”
“I thought you’d stabilize.”
“Five years.”
“I know.”
“You let five years pass.”
“I know.”
His voice had gone small.
I had never heard Daniel Cross sound small.
Hale spoke through the phone.
“You are blaming us for keeping you alive.”
“No.”
I turned toward the speaker.
“I am trying to determine whether you kept me blind.”
“That is grotesque.”
“Is it false?”
“Yes.”
“Then send Martin every prescription record, every scan, every note, every correspondence with Keene, and every communication concerning my visual prognosis.”
Martin stepped toward the phone.
“You may want to reconsider that sentence, Vernon.”
Hale went quiet.
Martin’s voice lost all warmth.
“I am counsel for Grant Mercer and the Mercer family entities.”
“I know who you are.”
“Then you know destruction, alteration, or concealment of medical records after notice of a dispute would create problems that have nothing to do with ophthalmology.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I am preserving evidence.”
Hale laughed without humor.
“This is unbelievable.”
“No,” I said.
“What is unbelievable is that a three-year-old needed a toy flashlight to make anyone question five years of certainty.”
Hale’s breathing came through the speaker.
Then he said, “Ask Daniel why the drops continued.”
Cross lifted his head.
My skin tightened.
“What does that mean?”
Hale said nothing else.
The call ended.
I heard the disconnect tone.
Nobody moved.
I faced Cross.
“Why did the drops continue?”
Cross stared somewhere beyond me.
“Daniel.”
“I don’t know.”
“Wrong answer.”
“I swear.”
“Then why did Hale say that?”
Cross rubbed at his mouth.
“I handled deliveries.”
“What deliveries?”
“Your medication.”
My stomach tightened.
“You picked it up?”
“Sometimes.”
“From where?”
“A compounding pharmacy in Stamford.”
Hannah stood.
“The code on the bottle traces to a pharmacy in Stamford.”
Cross looked at her.
“I know.”
The room went still.
“How often?” I asked.
“Every month.”
“And you never asked what was in it.”
“No.”
“Did Hale?”
“He sent the prescriptions directly.”
“Did you ever see the prescriptions?”
“No.”
“Then why would he tell me to ask you?”
Cross’s keys rattled in his hand.
A nervous habit.
“I don’t know.”
Martin spoke quietly.
“Maybe because someone else was paying.”
Cross froze.
That was enough.
I turned toward him.
“Who paid?”
He did not answer.
“Daniel.”
“The medical trust.”
Martin shook his head.
“No.”
Cross faced him.
“What?”
“The trust records do not show a recurring Stamford pharmacy expense.”
“I submitted invoices.”
“To whom?”
“Finance.”
“Which account?”
Cross hesitated.
Martin walked to the desk and opened his laptop.
“Which account?”
“Special operations.”
Martin stopped typing.
My voice dropped.
“Why would my medication be paid through special operations?”
Cross sounded genuinely confused.
“It was how Hale told us to classify private treatment related to Pier 17.”
“Hale does not control Mercer accounting.”
“No.”
“Who approved it?”
Cross did not answer.
I heard Martin’s keyboard clicking faster.
“Daniel.”
Cross finally said, “Peter Voss.”
Silence swallowed the room.
The man who investigated Pier 17.
The man who left eight months later.
The man Cross had promised to find.
Martin stopped typing.
“When was the last payment?”
Cross answered, “I don’t know.”
Martin turned his laptop.
Hannah leaned over it.
I could not see the screen.
I heard her inhale sharply.
“What?”
Martin’s voice had changed.
“The account is still active.”
My fingers curled against the desk.
“Who controls it?”
Martin clicked again.
Then stopped.
“Not Voss.”
“Who?”
He looked at Cross.
“Daniel does.”
Cross did not deny it.
That frightened me more than any denial could have.
Martin’s fingers stopped moving on the keyboard.
Hannah stood so quietly I could hear Lucy laughing somewhere far down the hall at whatever cartoon had survived the afternoon.
“Daniel,” I said.
“Yeah.”
His voice sounded worn down to the bone.
“Explain.”
“I inherited the account when Voss left.”
“That is not an explanation.”
“It was already designated for confidential Pier 17 expenses.”
“You signed the payments.”
“Yes.”
“To the pharmacy.”
“Yes.”
“Every month.”
“Yes.”
“For five years.”
“Yes.”
Each answer came flatter than the last.
I pressed both palms against the desk.
“What did you think you were paying for?”
“Medication.”
“For what?”
“Your eyes.”
“That is not a diagnosis.”
“I know.”
“You had invoices.”
“Yes.”
“Did they describe the medication?”
“No.”
“Did you ask?”
“Once.”
May you like
Cross rubbed his hand over his face.
“Hale said it was part of your trauma management and that he didn’t want details floating through regular accounting.”
