Chapter 3: What the Doctor Knew
Harold Vance arrived at my hotel room at noon.
I had checked into the Ritz-Carlton on Peachtree the night before.
I was not going back to the penthouse.
I was not going anywhere near anything that still smelled like Damian.
Harold set his briefcase on the table and looked at the photo Paige had printed out.
He studied it for a long moment without speaking.
"Where did this come from?" he finally said.
"Paige found it on a private Instagram account.
A friend of Chloe's posted it and deleted it within an hour.
Paige had already saved it."
Harold looked at Paige.
She nodded once.
He set the photo down carefully, the way you set something down when you don't want to touch it more than necessary.
"Samantha.
I need you to tell me exactly what Dr.
Ellison prescribed you in the six months before your surgery."
"He adjusted my blood pressure medication twice.
He said my levels were unstable."
"Did you ever question the adjustments?"
"He was my cardiologist.
I trusted him."
Harold picked up his pen.
"Who referred you to Ellison?"
I opened my mouth.
Then closed it.
Damian had recommended him.
Two years ago, after my previous cardiologist retired.
Damian had said Ellison was the best in Atlanta.
He had made the appointment himself.
I told Harold.
He wrote it down without reacting.
That was how I knew it was bad.
Harold always reacted.
"I'm going to refer you to a colleague," he said.
"Grace Holloway.
She handles crjminal cases.
She's going to want to speak with you today."
"Do you think Ellison deliberately—"
"I think," Harold said carefully, "that three people sat down to dinner three days before your artery ruptured, and none of them have explained why.
That is enough for Grace to start."
Paige was standing by the window.
She hadn't sat down since Harold arrived.
"Sam," she said quietly.
"There's something else."
She placed a second document on the table.
A bank transfer record.
Fifty thousand dollars.
Sent from a holding account connected to Carlisle Enterprises.
Recipient: a medical consulting firm registered in Delaware.
The firm's listed director was a name I didn't recognize.
But the registered address was the same building as Dr.
Ellison's private practice.
The room went very still.
"When was this transferred?" I asked.
"Six weeks before your surgery," Paige said.
I looked at Harold.
"Get Grace Holloway on the phone," I said.
"Now."
Harold was already dialing.
I pressed my hand flat against my chest, over the bandages, over the scar that was still raw and tight.
The fire behind my sternum had faded to a dull ache.
But something else had taken its place.
Something colder.
Damian had not simply abandoned me on an operating table.
He had put me there.
Grace Holloway arrived forty minutes later.
She was small, precise, and she shook my hand like she was closing a deal.
"Tell me everything," she said.
"Start from the first medication adjustment."
I told her.
All of it.
Every appointment, every prescription change, every time Ellison had told me my body was unpredictable and I had believed him.
Grace took notes in a small leather notebook.
She didn't use a laptop.
She didn't look at her phone.
When I finished, she closed the notebook and looked at me directly.
"Samantha.
I want to be honest with you.
What you're describing, if it's what it appears to be, is not a civil matter.
This would be criminal.
Prosecutable.
But the evidence chain has to be airtight before we move."
"What do you need?"
"Ellison's prescription records for your case.
The full financial trail on that Delaware firm.
And ideally—" she paused.
"Someone who was in that room when the three of them met."
Paige's phone buzzed on the table.
She looked at the screen.
Her face changed.
"Sam," she said slowly.
"Damian's flight lands in three hours."
Grace Holloway capped her pen.
May you like
"Good," she said.
"Let him come home."
