Chương 8
“Right now, you have several possible problems, and I don’t want you turning them into one emotional problem.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The difference is between family mistreatment, unauthorized account access, possible fraud, disputed gifts, medical neglect, and financial misuse.”
She leaned back.
“They may overlap.”
“But they’re not the same.”
“Exactly.”
I told her about Phedra’s letters and the missing one.
“Do not hand me the originals today.”
“Why?”
“Because your wife owns them.”
That caught me.
“They’re addressed to me.”
“She wrote them and never sent them.”
Lena folded her hands.
“More importantly, she is alive and capable of deciding what she wants done with them.”
I sat back.
I had already begun treating Phedra’s suffering like evidence I could collect.
The realization felt ugly.
“I’ll ask her.”
“Good.”
Lena glanced at the notes.
“And do not promise law enforcement, lawsuits, arrests, or revenge.”
“I haven’t.”
“Keep it that way.”
“What do I do?”
“Preserve records.”
“That’s it?”
“For today.”
“That feels like doing nothing.”
“It often does.”
I hated the answer because it was probably right.
Before I left, she gave me a list.
Secure my accounts.
Pull full bank histories.
Request copies of transfer records.
Document any messages where I had described the intended use of money.
Do not alter the old device accounts beyond necessary security measures.
Do not record private conversations unless I knew the applicable rules.
Do not bait anyone into committing new crimes.
I looked at the last line.
“I was planning to let them think I might invest.”
“That is not necessarily a crime.”
“So I can?”
“You can make your own family decisions.”
Her expression sharpened.
“What you cannot do is manufacture evidence.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She tore the page from the pad and handed it to me.
“Most angry people say yes before they do.”
I drove back to the hospital thinking about that.
Phedra was sitting upright when I arrived.
Someone had brought her oatmeal.
She was staring at it as if it had personally offended her.
“You look happy.”
“It tastes like wall paste.”
“Healthy wall paste?”
She gave me a tired look.
“Don’t defend it.”
I sat down.
“I met a lawyer.”
The spoon stopped halfway to her mouth.
“You moved fast.”
“Marcus recommended her.”
“What did she say?”
“That I’m bad at paperwork.”
“I could have told you that for free.”
“And that the letters are yours.”
Phedra lowered the spoon.
“What?”
“I shouldn’t have assumed I could use them.”
Her expression changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
“Thank you.”
“If you don’t want anyone else to read them, nobody does.”
She looked at the tray for a long time.
“I want copies made.”
“For the lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
That answer felt more honest than certainty would have.
“But I don’t want your mother saying I made it all up.”
I nodded.
Phedra picked up the spoon again.
“Did the lawyer say anything else?”
I told her about the recovery email.
She did not look surprised.
That bothered me.
“You suspected Godfrey?”
“I suspected somebody.”
“Why didn’t you say?”
“Because you were already looking at him like you wanted to put his head through a wall.”
“Fair.”
“And because I didn’t know.”
She took a bite of oatmeal and grimaced.
“Still terrible.”
I watched her eat another anyway.
“The hospital social worker wants to talk to you later.”
“About?”
“Where I’m going after discharge.”
“You’re coming with me.”
“To where?”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
The house belonged to Selina.
My old room barely existed.
My apartment was in Calgary.
The storage shed was not an option.
Phedra raised one eyebrow.
“Exactly.”
“We’ll get a hotel.”
“For how long?”
“As long as we need.”
“With what money?”
“The settlement.”
She put the spoon down.
“No.”
“Phedra.”
“You haven’t even received it.”
“I have savings.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“That means not enough.”
I leaned back.
“I can afford a hotel.”
“For weeks?”
“If necessary.”
“And treatment?”
“Yes.”
“Food?”
“Yes.”
“Transportation?”
“Yes.”
She stared at me.
“You always say yes when you don’t want to show me numbers.”
I almost denied it.
Then I remembered Lena’s questions.
Assumptions are expensive.
“I’ll show you the accounts.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
A knock sounded at the door.
The social worker entered carrying a binder and introduced herself as Marisol.
She asked Phedra where she had been living before admission.
Phedra hesitated.
“With family.”
Marisol waited.
Phedra looked at me.
I did not rescue her.
That was harder than it should have been.
“In a storage shed behind the house,” Phedra said.
Marisol’s face remained professional.
“Was that your choice?”
“Not really.”
“Did you have access to the main house?”
“Sometimes.”
“Food?”
Phedra’s fingers tightened around the blanket.
“Sometimes.”
Marisol asked whether she felt safe returning there.
“No.”
The word came out so quietly I almost missed it.
But she had said it.
By herself.
Marisol made a note and began discussing temporary housing options connected to treatment support.
There were no perfect solutions.
There was a short-term medical lodging program with limited availability.
There were nonprofit resources.
There were motel partnerships.
There were eligibility requirements, waiting lists, and forms.
Real help, I was learning, often arrived carrying paperwork.
I offered to pay privately.
Marisol nodded.
“That may solve the immediate housing issue.”
“Then we’ll do that.”
Phedra looked at me.
“What?”
“You keep saying we.”
I felt a sting of embarrassment.
Marisol quietly closed the binder.
Phedra continued.
“I want you with me.”
“Okay.”
“But I need to decide things too.”
“Okay.”
“Stop saying okay like you’re agreeing with a foreman.”
Marisol looked down, hiding a smile.
I rubbed my forehead.
“What do you want?”
“A furnished apartment, not a hotel.”
“All right.”
“Near the clinic.”
“All right.”
“And I want to see the price before you sign anything.”
“All right.”
She narrowed her eyes.
I caught myself.
“Yes.”
May you like
“That was better.”
After Marisol left, I received a text from Godfrey.
