Chapter 6 - The RefillI didn't believe him.
Or rather, I refused to.
There are truths the mind rejects not because evidence is weak, but because accepting them means destroying something permanent.
Brittany was selfish.
Dishonest.
Entitled.
She had forged my signature.
She had taken money.
But interfering with Dad’s medication?
No.
“There has to be an explanation.”
Derek nodded.
“There may be.”
That surprised me.
“You just implied she had something to do with Dad's death.”
“I said she picked up a prescription.”
“Why mention it unless—”
“Because your father asked me to look into it.”
I stopped.
“Dad knew?”
“He received an automated pharmacy notification showing the prescription had been collected. He hadn't requested the refill.”
“What medication?”
Derek named it.
I recognized the bottle.
Dad carried those pills in his jacket.
“So he asked you to investigate Brittany?”
“He asked me to find out who picked it up.”
“And you discovered her.”
“Security footage showed her.”
“Did you tell Dad?”
“The morning he died.”
That sentence landed heavily between us.
“What time?”
“About six forty-five.”
Dad called me at 7:14.
I missed it.
He collapsed before eight.
“What did he say when you told him?”
“He went quiet.”
“Then?”
“He said, ‘I need to speak to Lorraine.’”
I closed my eyes.
The missed call.
For years I had wondered what Dad wanted.
Now I knew.
Or thought I did.
Derek continued.
“I planned to meet him that afternoon.”
“He never made it.”
“No.”
My skin felt cold despite the warm store.
“What did Brittany do with the medication?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could she have picked it up for him?”
“Yes.”
“Did Dad ask her?”
“According to him, no.”
“Could Mom have asked?”
“Maybe.”
Every answer created another hole.
I brought the flash drive to Naomi.
She refused to leap toward conclusions.
“Prescription pickup does not establish poisoning or medication tampering.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
She nodded.
“That's why I'm reminding you.”
We contacted Officer Ruiz, who escalated the information to a detective.
Because Dad’s death had been medically certified as natural, nobody promised a reopened investigation.
But financial crimes were becoming increasingly clear.
Naomi sent the forged documents to the district attorney's financial-crimes unit.
Meanwhile, Luis traced the money.
Northfield Supply turned out not to be stealing from the store.
At least not exactly.
Derek had invoiced Dad under that name because Dad wanted the investigation hidden from Mom.
After Dad died, however, Mom found the invoices.
She contacted Derek.
Then something unexpected happened.
“I kept working,” Derek told us.
“For Mom?”
“For Frank.”
“He was dead.”
“He'd prepaid part of the investigation.”
That explained the $17,000 transfer.
Dad had funded Derek to continue if necessary.
Derek used Northfield payments afterward as reimbursement for investigators, record searches, and later legal research.
“But seventy-three thousand?” I asked.
“Not all of those payments came to me.”
Luis confirmed it.
Several transfers were spoofed.
Someone created a near-identical vendor profile—Northfield Supplies instead of Northfield Supply—and diverted $38,000.
Destination?
An account associated with Mom.
The fraud was becoming almost embarrassingly elaborate.
Dad had attempted to conceal an investigation.
Mom discovered the concealment and used it as cover for theft.
Then she portrayed Derek to the family as something else entirely.
My entire childhood suddenly felt unreliable.
I didn't know which memories belonged to reality and which had been curated by Mom.
That evening, Brittany showed up again.
This time I did not invite her inside.
“What did you do with Dad's medication?”
Her face drained instantly.
That reaction told me Derek was right.
“Who told you?”
“Answer me.”
“I picked it up.”
“Why?”
“Mom asked.”
Of course.
“What did she do with it?”
“I gave it to her.”
“When?”
“Two days before Dad died.”
My pulse roared.
“Did you know Dad hadn't requested it?”
“No.”
“Brittany.”
“I swear.”
“Why didn't you tell anyone?”
“Because after he died, I remembered it.”
I stared at her.
“And?”
“And I asked Mom whether it mattered.”
“What did she say?”
Brittany began shaking.
“She slapped me.”
I hadn't expected that.
“She told me never to mention it again.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“For three years?”
“I was scared!”
“You keep saying that like fear erases choices.”
“I know!”
Tears streamed down her face.
“I know what I've done.”
I crossed my arms.
“Do you?”
She nodded desperately.
“That's why I'm going to the police tomorrow.”
I studied her.
“Why tomorrow?”
“My attorney is coming with me.”
For once, she had taken sensible advice.
Then she said, “But there's something you should know first.”
I almost smiled from sheer exhaustion.
“Does every conversation with you contain another secret?”
“This one is about the morning Dad died.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“I was at the house.”
“I thought you were at your apartment.”
“That’s what Mom told everybody.”
“Why?”
“Because Dad was furious with me.”
She wiped her nose.
“He confronted me about the pharmacy pickup.”
“When?”
“Around seven.”
“Derek told him at six forty-five.”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“He asked why I picked it up. I told him Mom asked me.”
“And Mom?”
“She came downstairs.”
Brittany's voice trembled.
“They started arguing.”
“About the medication?”
“At first.”
“What else?”
“Everything.”
Dad had apparently accused Mom of stealing from the store and hiding debts.
Mom accused Dad of trying to leave her penniless.
Then Dad announced he was calling me.
At 7:14.
He did.
I didn't answer.
“He said he'd drive to you.”
A wave of guilt hit so violently I had to grip the doorframe.
Brittany saw it.
“No. Lorraine, don't.”
“Don't what?”
“Do that thing where you blame yourself.”
“You don't get to tell me—”
“He called you once. You were probably in the shower. People miss calls.”
I stared at her.
For once, she sounded like my sister rather than Mom's accomplice.
“What happened after he called?”
“Mom went into the kitchen.”
“And?”
“She came back with coffee.”
The world narrowed.
“What?”
“She gave Dad coffee.”
“That was normal.”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“He drank some. He was still arguing.”
“How long before he collapsed?”
Brittany started sobbing.
“Maybe twenty minutes.”
My stomach turned.
“Did you see Mom put anything in it?”
“No.”
“Did you?”
“No!”
“Then why are you telling me this?”
“Because after the ambulance came, I saw the prescription bottle.”
“Where?”
“In the kitchen trash.”
Silence.
Every hair on my arms lifted.
“The bottle you had collected?”
“I think so.”
“Empty?”
“I don't know. I didn't look.”
“Did you tell the paramedics?”
“No.”
“The police?”
“No.”
“Anyone?”
She shook her head.
I wanted to hate her.
It would have been easier.
But the terrified woman standing outside my door looked genuinely haunted.
“What happened to the trash?”
“Mom took it out.”
“When?”
“Before we went to the hospital.”
I felt sick.
“Dad was being taken away in an ambulance, and Mom stopped to take out the trash?”
Brittany closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
That night, Detective Ruiz—not Officer Ruiz anymore in my phone, because this had been reassigned—called me.
He explained carefully that three-year-old suspicions were difficult to investigate.
Dad had been cremated.
There could be no exhumation.
Medical records might help, but toxicology had been limited because nothing suspicious had been reported.
I understood.
But financial evidence could still tell us motive.
The next morning, Brittany gave her statement.
She also surrendered access to Brighter Path Holdings.
That opened another door.
Luis called Naomi and me into his office that afternoon.
On the conference-room screen was a transfer history.
The fake $185,000 loan had been divided.
$108,000 to Brighter Path.
$52,000 into accounts related to Brittany.
$25,000 elsewhere.
That final amount went to a company I had never heard of.
Eagle Ridge Consulting.
Luis clicked.
Its registered agent was an attorney.
Its beneficial owner was harder to identify.
But one recurring payment caught his attention.
Every month for three years, Eagle Ridge had sent $3,000 to somebody.
“Who?” I asked.
Luis leaned back.
“We finally got a name from a subpoena return.”
He turned the paper toward me.
The recipient was Dr. Aaron Blake.
I knew him.
He had been Dad’s cardiologist.
My blood went cold.
“Why was my mother’s shell company paying my father's doctor?”
Nobody answered.
Then Naomi's phone rang.
She listened for less than a minute before standing.
“What happened?” I asked.
May you like
She looked directly at me.
“The police just arrested your mother.”
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