Chapter 5 - WHAT HAPPENED TO MARIANNEI did not sleep that night.
At six the next morning, I sat beside Rebecca’s hospital bed while she drank terrible coffee and watched me unravel twenty-six years of trust one memory at a time.
“You’re thinking about Mom,” she said.
“Yes.”
“You think Nathaniel had something to do with her death?”
“I don’t know.”
The sentence frightened me.
Because yesterday, the answer would have been absurd.
Marianne had pancreatic cancer.
There was no mystery.
She had been diagnosed late.
She declined quickly.
She died at home with Rebecca and me beside her.
Nothing suspicious.
Nothing hidden.
And yet someone had broken into my house and stolen only her medical records.
Detective Alvarez arrived at 7:15.
“We have Nathaniel in custody on fraud conspiracy charges. Florence remains in custody. Mercer’s attorney contacted us overnight.”
“Where is Mercer?”
“Missing.”
“Of course.”
“We also located Adrian’s travel booking.”
Rebecca sat forward.
“Where?”
“He booked a charter flight to Nassau.”
“Did he get on it?”
“No. The pilot says he never arrived.”
“So he’s still here.”
“Possibly.”
I asked about Marianne’s records.
Alvarez did not dismiss my concern.
“We’re treating the burglary as connected until proven otherwise.”
At nine, my insurance broker returned my call.
The policy existed.
Twenty-five million dollars.
Opened eleven months earlier.
My signature appeared on the application.
I had never signed it.
The beneficiary was not Florence directly.
It was a trust.
Fairmont Legacy Trust.
Controlled by Florence.
Rebecca stared at me.
“They were planning to kill you.”
Alvarez corrected gently.
“We can prove attempted financial fraud. The policy raises serious concerns, but right now we cannot prove homicidal intent.”
“What more do you need?”
“Evidence.”
I hated that word.
Evidence had become the difference between what I knew and what the law could act upon.
My medical examination listed on the insurance application was also fraudulent.
A physician named Dr. Elliot Crane had certified me healthy.
I had never met Dr. Crane.
Alvarez’s team searched him.
He had retired two years earlier.
He had also been Marianne’s pain-management specialist during the final month of her life.
Every person in the room went silent.
Rebecca whispered, “Oh my God.”
I remembered Crane.
Quiet man.
Late fifties then.
He visited the house twice.
Maybe three times.
Marianne’s oncologist recommended him when her pain became severe.
After Marianne died, I never thought about him again.
Alvarez asked, “Do you know whether Dr. Crane had any connection to Nathaniel Price?”
“No.”
“Florence?”
“No.”
“Adrian?”
“No.”
We found one.
Dr. Crane’s medical consulting company had received payments from a Price-controlled investment partnership.
Payments beginning four months before Marianne died.
That did not mean murder.
But it meant questions.
Lots of them.
Crane lived ninety miles away.
Police found him by afternoon.
He requested a lawyer before answering anything.
Then his lawyer asked whether prosecutors were prepared to discuss immunity.
That was when my world broke a second time.
At 4:10 p.m., Dr. Elliot Crane sat in an interview room with prosecutors.
I was not permitted inside.
Neither was Rebecca.
But two hours later, Alvarez came out.
She looked older.
I stood.
“Tell me.”
“Mr. Prescott—”
“Tell me.”
She hesitated.
“There were irregularities in your wife’s medication during her final weeks.”
Rebecca’s hand flew to her mouth.
“What kind of irregularities?”
“Dosage changes.”
“Was she given something that killed her?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“She had cancer.”
“Yes.”
“Would she have died anyway?”
Alvarez’s voice softened.
“Probably.”
I nearly shouted.
“That isn’t my question.”
Rebecca grabbed my arm.
Alvarez continued.
“Dr. Crane claims Nathaniel pressured him to increase sedatives so Mrs. Prescott would be less alert during several business-document meetings held at your home.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
Nathaniel had visited frequently during Marianne’s last month.
I remembered documents.
Corporate papers.
He would bring them into the study.
Sometimes I signed them beside Marianne’s bed because I refused to leave her.
“He wanted her sedated?”
“According to Crane, Marianne had begun questioning corporate transfers.”
Of course she had.
Marianne had been Prescott Development’s first bookkeeper.
Before the skyscrapers.
Before the private planes.
Before anyone knew our name.
She understood every number.
“What did she find?”
“A side agreement transferring future voting authority to Nathaniel in the event you became incapacitated.”
“I never signed that.”
“You did.”
My chest tightened.
“What?”
“According to Crane, Nathaniel presented several documents while you were exhausted and caring for your wife.”
I remembered signing papers without reading them.
For the first time in my life, I wanted to travel backward in time and slap the pen from my own hand.
“What happened to the agreement?”
“We don’t know.”
“Why would he need Florence now if he already had it?”
“Because Marianne noticed it.”
Rebecca whispered, “Mom stopped him.”
Alvarez nodded.
“Apparently she confronted Nathaniel.”
I remembered a night.
Marianne had been weak.
Nathaniel visited.
After he left, she said something strange.
“Don’t let people make decisions for you just because you’re tired, Jon.”
I thought she meant doctors.
She meant him.
According to Crane, Marianne forced Nathaniel to destroy the agreement.
But before doing so, she made a copy.
A copy nobody had found.
Until perhaps now.
The medical records stolen from my house contained handwritten notes Marianne sometimes tucked into folders.
If she had hidden evidence there—
whoever broke in had been looking for it.
Rebecca cried quietly.
“Did Crane hurt her?”
Alvarez answered carefully.
“He admits administering higher doses than necessary.”
I sat down.
“Did that shorten her life?”
“We don’t know.”
“How much?”
“We may never know.”
Rage is a strange thing when it has nowhere to go.
Nathaniel had not caused Marianne’s cancer.
But if Crane was telling the truth, Nathaniel had exploited her dying weeks.
He had dulled her mind.
Manipulated me.
Used our grief as a business opportunity.
And now, years later, he had tried again.
Florence was the second attempt.
Rebecca leaned against me.
We sat together for a long time.
Then Leo entered with Walter.
He ran toward his mother carrying a paper airplane.
“I made it.”
Rebecca wiped her tears.
“It’s beautiful.”
Leo looked at me.
“Grandpa sad?”
I forced a smile.
“A little.”
He climbed into my lap.
“Mommy says hugs help.”
He wrapped tiny arms around my neck.
And somehow they did.
That evening, the case changed again.
Police searched Nathaniel’s home.
Inside a locked office, they found documents connecting him to Florence dating back almost four years.
Not fourteen months.
Four years.
Before Marianne died.
One photograph showed Florence attending a private corporate retreat in Colorado.
Nathaniel stood behind her.
So did Dr. Crane.
Florence had been part of Nathaniel’s circle before she ever “accidentally” met me.
But one photograph disturbed me more than all the others.
It had been taken at Marianne’s funeral.
In the background, partially hidden behind a tree, stood a young woman in black.
Florence.
She had watched me bury my wife.
Three years before introducing herself.
I drove directly to the station.
Florence sat behind glass in an interview room.
No wedding dress now.
Gray detention clothes.
No makeup.
No performance.
I picked up the phone.
She did the same.
For a long moment, we stared at one another.
Finally, I asked:
“Were you at my wife’s funeral?”
Florence’s face changed.
She knew I had seen the photograph.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Nathaniel sent me.”
“What did he want?”
She looked down.
“To see how vulnerable you were.”
My stomach twisted.
“And what did you report?”
“That you were destroyed.”
She began crying.
I felt nothing.
“Did you know Crane was drugging Marianne?”
“No.”
“Don’t lie.”
“I swear.”
“You’ve sworn a lot of things.”
“I didn’t know that part.”
“Did you know Nathaniel was trying to take my company?”
“Yes.”
“Did you marry me for money?”
Her eyes met mine.
“We never got married.”
“Answer me.”
“At first?”
She swallowed.
“Yes.”
The truth hurt less than I expected.
Maybe because I had already buried the illusion.
“At first?”
She nodded.
“I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you.”
I almost laughed.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“But it happened.”
“You kidnapped my daughter.”
“Adrian did.”
“You hit her.”
Florence closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because she found everything.”
“You threatened Leo.”
“No.”
“Your voice is on the recording.”
“I said his name. I didn’t threaten him.”
“You helped take his mother away.”
Tears rolled down her face.
“Yes.”
I stood.
Florence suddenly pressed closer to the glass.
“Jonathan, wait.”
I stopped.
“There’s something Nathaniel doesn’t know.”
I turned.
“What?”
“Marianne’s file wasn’t stolen by Nathaniel.”
“Who took it?”
Florence whispered a name.
I thought I had misheard.
“Say that again.”
She did.
And suddenly, every assumption we had made collapsed.
Because the person who broke into my house was not Adrian.
Not Mercer.
Not Nathaniel.
It was Walter.
May you like
My best friend.
The man currently taking care of my grandson.
Related Stories
