Chapter 7 - ANNE’S LAST MONTHFor four years, I believed cancer killed my wife.
That remained medically true.
But the files from Charles Whitmore’s office raised another question.
Had someone helped it happen faster?
The private nurse was named Rebecca Sloan.
I remembered her.
Anne’s oncologist recommended supplemental overnight nursing during the final six weeks because Anne’s pain had become difficult to manage.
Rebecca was calm, efficient, almost invisible.
She arrived at eight every evening and left shortly after sunrise.
Anne liked her.
I trusted her.
Why wouldn’t I?
By then, trust had become automatic.
Charles handled the paperwork.
Charles recommended agencies.
Charles made calls when I couldn’t.
I spent my days beside Anne.
He handled “everything else.”
Now everything else was exactly what terrified me.
Two days after the rescue at Lake Alder, Caroline and I sat in a conference room at Boston Police headquarters.
Leo was with Daniel’s wife.
Florence remained hospitalized under guard.
Marcus was in county custody without bail.
Charles had been charged initially with conspiracy, fraud, forgery, and kidnapping-related offenses.
More charges were expected.
Detective Ramos placed copies of bank statements on the table.
“Rebecca Sloan received six payments from a consulting company called Belltower Medical Services.”
I stared at the name.
“Charles controlled it?”
“We believe so.”
“How much?”
“Seventy-four thousand dollars.”
Caroline inhaled sharply.
“For six weeks of nursing?”
Ramos nodded.
“Payments began two months before your mother died and continued for three months afterward.”
“Why afterward?”
“That’s one of our questions.”
“Where is Rebecca?”
“We found her.”
My heart hammered.
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Rhode Island.”
“Has she talked?”
Ramos hesitated.
“She says the payments were compensation for private medical consulting.”
“Consulting for Charles?”
“That’s her story.”
“She’s lying.”
“We need evidence.”
I understood that.
But understanding didn’t make patience easier.
“What did she do to Anne?”
“We don’t know that she did anything.”
Caroline reached for my hand.
“Dad.”
I looked at the detective.
“Can you prove whether Anne received the wrong medication?”
“Four years later? Difficult.”
“She was cremated.”
“Yes.”
I hated myself for remembering that fact as a barrier to justice.
Anne had wanted cremation.
Her choice.
Our daughter spread half her ashes with me.
The rest were placed beneath the maple tree behind our home.
There would be no exhumation.
No toxicology.
Only records.
Memories.
People.
Ramos slid another document toward us.
“This is a medication log from your home.”
I recognized the handwriting.
Rebecca’s.
Morphine.
Lorazepam.
Anti-nausea medication.
Sleep medication.
Dosages.
Times.
Then several nights had been altered.
Numbers overwritten.
“I don’t understand.”
Caroline studied it.
“Mom’s morphine doses increased.”
“Yes,” Ramos said.
“Was that authorized?”
“We’re asking her doctors.”
My stomach twisted.
“What happens if they weren’t?”
Ramos answered carefully.
“That doesn’t automatically mean wrongdoing. End-of-life medication sometimes changes quickly.”
“But if Charles paid the nurse?”
“That changes the context.”
I leaned back.
I remembered one of Anne’s final nights.
She had been unusually confused.
She kept calling me by her brother’s name.
I called Rebecca.
Rebecca told me it was normal.
“Medication and disease progression,” she said.
I believed her.
Anne slept nearly sixteen hours afterward.
Had that been natural?
Or had someone drugged her?
I stood abruptly.
“I need air.”
Outside the conference room, I leaned against a wall.
Caroline followed.
“You can’t do this to yourself.”
“I let them into our house.”
“You didn’t know.”
“I hired Rebecca.”
“Charles recommended her.”
“I signed the contract.”
“You were taking care of Mom.”
“I should have checked.”
“Checked what? Whether Dad’s best friend of thirty years had secretly hired Mom’s nurse?”
I looked at her.
She was right.
But guilt rarely listens to reason.
Caroline’s eyes softened.
“Mom knew you loved her.”
“That isn’t enough.”
“It was enough for her.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she told me.”
I looked away.
Caroline continued.
“Two weeks before she died, she made me promise something.”
“What?”
“That if you ever found someone else, I wouldn’t punish you for it.”
I almost laughed.
“Apparently you broke that promise.”
“I tried.”
“You investigated Florence.”
“Because she was obviously suspicious.”
“Not to me.”
“Yes, Dad.”
I looked at her.
She smiled sadly.
“Mom didn’t say I had to let you marry a criminal.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
So did Caroline.
For ten seconds, standing in a police station corridor while investigating whether my wife’s death had been manipulated, we laughed together.
It felt like oxygen.
Then Ramos appeared.
“We have something.”
We returned to the room.
Another detective had joined him.
He placed a laptop on the table.
“We recovered deleted emails from Charles’s office computer.”
One email was from Rebecca.
Subject:
DOSAGE CONCERNS
The body read:
I will not increase again without physician authorization. She was barely responsive last night. This is not what we discussed.
Charles responded:
You are being compensated for discretion, not medical opinions. Follow the revised schedule.
My heart stopped.
Another email.
Rebecca:
This could kill her.
Charles:
Her prognosis is terminal. No one will question natural decline.
Caroline covered her mouth.
I couldn’t feel my hands.
Ramos spoke quietly.
“We’ve referred everything to the district attorney.”
I read the email again.
This could kill her.
Charles knew.
But why?
Why would he want Anne dead?
Ramos had the answer.
“Mr. Prescott, three weeks before your wife died, she requested a full independent audit of your family trust.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“She contacted another law firm.”
“Anne never told me.”
“She may have been trying to protect you from stress.”
My eyes burned.
Of course.
That was exactly what Anne would do.
Ramos continued.
“According to the correspondence we found, your wife had noticed unexplained withdrawals.”
“Charles.”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Approximately eleven million dollars over seven years.”
Caroline whispered, “Oh my God.”
“And if Anne completed the audit?”
“Charles likely faced prison.”
There it was.
Motive.
Anne had discovered him.
She was dying anyway.
He only needed to make sure she died before she exposed him.
I stood so fast the chair fell backward.
“I want to see him.”
Ramos shook his head.
“No.”
“Five minutes.”
“Absolutely not.”
“He murdered my wife.”
“We do not yet have a murder charge.”
“He ordered a nurse to overdose her.”
“We have evidence suggesting he pressured a nurse to exceed authorized medication. Prosecutors will determine charges.”
“Let me see him.”
“No.”
I turned toward the door.
Caroline blocked me.
“Dad.”
“Move.”
“No.”
“Caroline.”
“What are you going to do? Hit a seventy-year-old man in a police station?”
“I haven’t decided.”
She almost smiled.
Then her face became serious.
“Mom deserves justice, not revenge.”
I stared at her.
“She deserves both.”
“Maybe.”
Caroline touched my chest.
“But you only control one.”
I closed my eyes.
My daughter had become wiser than me while I was busy treating her like a child.
That realization was becoming painfully familiar.
Later that afternoon, Florence asked to speak with me.
Her attorney delivered the request.
I refused.
She asked again the next morning.
Refused.
On the third day, she sent a handwritten note through Detective Grant.
I know what Charles did to Anne.
I read it twice.
Then agreed.
Florence sat behind thick glass at the county detention medical unit.
Her shoulder was bandaged.
Without makeup, jewelry, or carefully arranged hair, she looked younger.
And older.
Both somehow.
She picked up the phone.
I did too.
“You have five minutes.”
“Jonathan—”
“Don’t.”
She stopped.
“Tell me about Anne.”
Florence looked down.
“Marcus knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That Charles had been paying the nurse.”
“How?”
“He helped move money through Belltower.”
My jaw tightened.
“Were you involved?”
“No.”
“Were you even in his life then?”
“Yes, but I never met Charles until later.”
“Did Marcus know Charles was trying to kill Anne?”
“I don’t know.”
“Wrong answer.”
“It’s the truth.”
“You came here because you said you knew.”
“I know what happened afterward.”
“Which was?”
“Charles panicked.”
“Because?”
“Rebecca threatened to talk.”
I sat forward.
“When?”
“A few months after Anne died.”
“What did he do?”
“He paid her more.”
“And?”
“And Marcus threatened her.”
There it was.
“Where is the proof?”
Florence swallowed.
“I have it.”
“Where?”
“A storage locker.”
“Location?”
“I’ll give it to prosecutors.”
“Give it to me.”
“No.”
I almost laughed.
“You still think you’re negotiating?”
“I need protection.”
“You need prison.”
“I know.”
That surprised me.
She looked directly at me.
“I know what I deserve.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“What about Caroline?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I was angry.”
“You suggested killing her.”
“I know.”
“You arranged Leo’s kidnapping.”
Her face tightened.
“No.”
“Marcus says you did.”
“He’s lying.”
“He says you ordered the hotel employee.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then who?”
“Charles.”
I stared at her.
“Why would Charles take Leo?”
“Leverage.”
“You expect me to trust you?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“But you can verify it.”
“How?”
“The woman who took Leo is named Marissa Cole. She works for Charles.”
“Not Marcus?”
“No.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know plenty of things when they’re useful.”
She flinched.
“Jonathan…”
“What?”
“I’m sorry.”
I almost hung up.
Then she said something I didn’t expect.
“Not because I got caught.”
I waited.
“I’m sorry because somewhere along the way, you stopped being a target.”
I laughed bitterly.
“That’s supposed to help?”
“No.”
“What did I become?”
She looked through the glass.
“A person I wished I had met before Marcus.”
For a second, I felt grief.
Not love.
Grief for something that never existed.
“You did meet me.”
“I know.”
“And you chose this anyway.”
Tears slid down her cheeks.
“Yes.”
I nodded.
“Then live with that.”
I started to hang up.
“Jonathan.”
I stopped.
“Charles has another partner.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“Who?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“Then how do you know?”
“Because Marcus was afraid of him.”
“Marcus doesn’t seem afraid of much.”
“He was afraid of this man.”
“What does he do?”
Florence glanced toward the guard.
Then lowered her voice.
“He’s on your board.”
My heart slowed.
“Prescott Systems?”
“Yes.”
“Which board member?”
“I never met him.”
“Male?”
“Yes.”
“Age?”
“Older than Marcus.”
“That describes half the board.”
“He used the name Shepherd.”
“Code name?”
“I think so.”
“What does Shepherd want?”
She looked at me.
“Your company.”
“Marcus wanted my company.”
“No.”
Florence shook her head.
“Marcus wanted money.”
“And Shepherd?”
“He wants control.”
My mind raced through fourteen board members.
Men I had known for decades.
Executives.
Investors.
Friends.
One of them had helped Charles.
One of them had watched this happen from inside my own company.
Florence leaned closer to the glass.
“The wedding was never the final step, Jonathan.”
“What was?”
She hesitated.
May you like
Then answered.
“Your funeral.”
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