Chương 7
“How do you know?”
Rebecca answered in a whisper.
“Because I made it.”
For several seconds, I could hear only the hospital ventilation system and Rebecca Sloan trying not to sob into my voicemail.
Then the message continued.
“I work for a physical therapy clinic, not a doctor’s office.”
Her voice shook harder.
“Vanessa asked me to make something that looked like a physician’s letterhead because she said she was putting together a birthday joke about how stubborn Thomas was.”
My stomach turned.
“She sent me the wording.”
Rebecca took a breath.
“I copied it into a template, put a fake signature at the bottom, and sent her the PDF.”
There was a faint rustle.
“I didn’t know she was going to use it.”
Another pause.
“I swear to you, I didn’t know.”
The message ended with her asking me to call.
I did not.
Not yet.
My first instinct was to save the voicemail in three different places, forward it to myself, call Hart, call my supervisor, call anyone who could lock the night into procedure before another person changed their story.
Instead I put the phone on my knee.
My father had asked for his daughter.
For once, I tried to be that first.
The curtain remained open.
A respiratory therapist pushed a cart past me.
Somebody across the hall complained that the television remote did not work.
A nurse told him he was in the emergency department, not a hotel.
He said he had paid less for better hotels.
She laughed.
Normal life kept happening around the edges of ours.
My phone buzzed again.
This time Rebecca was calling.
I answered.
“Rebecca.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“Are you alone?”
There was a hesitation.
“My husband is asleep upstairs.”
“Is Vanessa with you?”
“No.”
“Has she called?”
“Six times.”
“Did you answer?”
“Once.”
“What did she say?”
“She told me not to talk to anyone.”
I leaned forward.
“Did she threaten you?”
“No.”
Rebecca sniffed.
“She said I’d get in trouble too.”
That sounded more believable than a threat.
People like Vanessa did not always need to threaten.
Sometimes they only had to remind you that your fingerprints were nearby.
“Rebecca, listen to me carefully.”
“Okay.”
“Do not delete anything.”
“I haven’t.”
“Messages, emails, drafts, the PDF, whatever she sent you.”
“I still have everything.”
“Good.”
“She texted the wording.”
“Keep the original message.”
“And do not edit the files, rename them, or move things around more than necessary.”
Her breathing steadied slightly.
“Are you talking to me as an agent?”
“No.”
That answer came faster than I expected.
“I’m talking to you as Thomas Mercer’s daughter.”
She began crying again.
“I really thought it was a joke.”
“I believe you thought something.”
The sharpness in my voice made her quiet.
I closed my eyes.
“That came out wrong.”
“No, it didn’t.”
She swallowed.
“I was stupid.”
“I’m not interested in deciding that tonight.”
“What should I do?”
“Call Lieutenant Hart at the Marion County Police Department and tell her exactly what you told me.”
“What if Vanessa gets arrested?”
I stared at the empty hospital bed.
“That is not your decision.”
Rebecca whispered, “She’s my sister.”
“I know.”
“You don’t understand.”
I almost laughed.
Instead I said, “My brother watched our father get hit with a baseball bat.”
Silence.
Then Rebecca said, “Fair.”
That was the first honest word I had heard from anyone connected to Vanessa all night.
I gave her the department’s main number and Hart’s name.
“Do it now.”
“Rebecca.”
“Yes?”
“Do not coordinate your story with Vanessa.”
“I won’t.”
“Or Daniel.”
“I barely know Daniel.”
“That hasn’t stopped anyone tonight.”
She gave a small, miserable laugh.
Then she said, “Claire, there’s something else.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“Of course there is.”
“The wording Vanessa sent me mentioned incapacity.”
“What exactly?”
“I can pull it up.”
I heard tapping.
Then her breath caught.
“It says, ‘Mr. Thomas Mercer demonstrates progressive cognitive impairment affecting judgment, financial decision-making, and independent management of assets.’”
The language was polished enough to sound medical to someone who wanted it to sound medical.
It was also vague enough to avoid naming a specific diagnosis.
“Was there a date?”
“August nineteenth.”
Six weeks ago.
The same period Daniel had described.
“Anything about driving, medication, living alone?”
“No.”
“Anything recommending guardianship?”
“No.”
Rebecca paused.
“It says he should designate a trusted person to manage financial matters.”
There it was.
Not a diagnosis.
A bridge.
“What doctor’s name was on it?”
“Dr. Raj Patel.”
My father’s actual physician.
I stood so fast the chair legs scraped the floor.
A nurse glanced toward me.
I lowered my voice.
“Did Vanessa give you that name?”
“Yes.”
“Did she give you the clinic information?”
“Yes.”
“Did you verify any of it?”
“No.”
Rebecca’s voice cracked.
“I just copied what she sent.”
“Call Hart.”
“Now.”
I hung up and called Hart myself.
She answered after three rings.
“Mercer.”
“I have potential evidence.”
She sighed softly.
“You really are terrible at staying out of this.”
“I did not look for it.”
“What happened?”
I told her about Rebecca’s voicemail without embellishment.
Hart became completely quiet.
When I finished, she asked for Rebecca’s number.
I gave it to her.
“Did Rebecca send you the document?”
“No.”
“Good.”
The approval surprised me.
Hart continued.
“Do not ask her to.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Do not contact Dr. Patel.”
That one irritated me because I had been planning exactly that.
“Hart.”
“No.”
“I can ask whether the letter is legitimate.”
“And if this becomes a criminal investigation into forgery or attempted exploitation, I’d prefer the witnesses not have been interviewed first by a federal agent who is also the victim’s daughter.”
I hated how reasonable she was.
“Fine.”
“Fine means fine?”
“It means I resent your competence.”
“I can live with that.”
Her voice softened.
“How’s your father?”
“Radiology.”
“Anything serious?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“I’ll keep you updated on what I can.”
May you like
She paused.
“And Claire?”
