Chapter 5 - The Doctor Who Buried the Truth
Dr. Julian Cross had signed Samuel Hayes's death certificate.
Nora remembered his elegant handwriting.
His calm voice.
His expensive watch.
And the way he'd looked directly into her eyes and told her there was nothing anyone could have done.
Now she sat across from Vincent in his private study, staring at the man's photograph on Rebecca's tablet.
“That's him,” she whispered.
Rebecca nodded.
“Cross resigned from Ashcroft nine months ago.”
“Why?”
“Officially, personal reasons.”
“And unofficially?”
“We found complaints involving unauthorized medical procedures and falsified treatment records.”
Nora felt sick.
“Was Samuel one of his patients?”
“We don't know yet.”
Vincent's expression darkened.
“Find out.”
Rebecca hesitated.
“Vincent, I need to remind you that any investigation must go through lawful channels.”
He looked at her.
“Then use every lawful channel you've got.”
Three days later, Vincent attended his first full rehabilitation session in nearly a month.
Dr. Mercer worked with him on upper-body strength and supported transfers.
Nora watched from the doorway.
Vincent noticed her reflection in the mirror.
“You enjoying the show?”
“Immensely.”
“I'm sweating.”
“It's very dramatic.”
Dr. Mercer suppressed a smile.
“Vincent, concentrate.”
He completed another transfer with assistance.
His arms shook violently.
By the time he returned to his chair, his shirt was damp and his breathing ragged.
Nora handed him a towel.
“You did well.”
He looked up.
“No jokes?”
“I'm saving them.”
“For what?”
“When you become unbearable again.”
He laughed.
It was a real laugh.
And something in Nora's chest loosened.
She had come into this house carrying anger.
Now she was beginning to carry something far more dangerous.
Hope.
That afternoon, Nora received a call from an unfamiliar woman.
“Is this Nora Hayes?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Dr. Amelia Porter. I worked with your brother.”
Nora sat down.
“Where?”
“At Ashcroft.”
“Were you his doctor?”
“No. I was a research coordinator.”
Nora's grip tightened around the phone.
“What do you want?”
“To apologize.”
“For what?”
“For helping people convince you that Samuel's injury was an accident.”
Nora closed her eyes.
Dr. Porter continued.
“Your brother discovered that a private medical research program was using patients without proper consent.”
“What kind of program?”
“Experimental neurostimulation devices. Some legitimate research was being conducted, but the records Samuel found suggested unauthorized procedures and falsified consent forms.”
Nora struggled to breathe.
“Was Samuel experimented on?”
“I don't know. I saw records indicating he was assessed for the program, but I never saw a valid consent form.”
“Why didn't you come forward?”
“I was afraid.”
“Of Cross?”
“Of the people funding him.”
“Who?”
Silence.
Then Dr. Porter whispered, “Someone close to Vincent Hale.”
The line went dead.
That evening, Nora told Vincent everything.
He listened without interrupting.
When she finished, he stared at the fireplace.
“Cross approached me about investing in spinal research two years ago.”
Nora looked at him.
“You funded him?”
“I funded a foundation. I believed it was legitimate.”
“How much?”
“Four million.”
She stood abruptly.
“Four million dollars.”
“Nora—”
“My brother was lying in a hospital bed, and you were financing the man who treated him?”
“I didn't know.”
“That's what everyone says.”
Vincent flinched.
She immediately regretted the cruelty in her voice.
But grief was not always reasonable.
“Samuel begged me to believe him,” she whispered. “I told him the doctors knew what they were doing.”
Vincent moved closer.
“You couldn't have known.”
“Neither could you?”
He didn't answer.
Nora looked away.
“I need time.”
He nodded.
“Take it.”
She walked out.
He did not follow.
At midnight, Nora returned to her room.
An envelope lay beneath her door.
Inside was a photocopy of Samuel's medical chart.
Several entries were highlighted.
One read:
PATIENT REQUESTED DISCHARGE. REQUEST DENIED BY AUTHORIZED REPRESENTATIVE.
Below it was a signature.
Nora stared.
It was not Samuel's.
It was not hers.
The name was printed clearly.
VINCENT HALE.
She ran to the study.
Vincent looked up as she entered.
“Did you sign this?”
She slammed the paper onto his desk.
He examined it.
His expression changed.
“No.”
“Your name is right there.”
“That's not my signature.”
“Then whose is it?”
Vincent studied the handwriting.
He went very still.
“Nora.”
She waited.
“I've seen this signature before.”
“Where?”
“On documents my father used to sign for me.”
Nora stared.
“Your father?”
May you like
Vincent swallowed.
“My father has been dead for twelve years.”
