Chapter 9 - The Blood Sample
The hospital had never reported the break-in to me.
A laboratory technician found a storage unit forced open.
Three samples were missing.
All belonged to me.
Security assumed the theft was random.
Nothing else was taken.
No medication.
No controlled substances.
No equipment.
Only my blood.
“Why would Jason steal it?” I asked.
Dr. Patel shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
Laura did.
“To falsify future test results.”
“Or plant evidence,” Marcus added.
Evidence of what?
No one knew.
The police reopened every medical event from the previous year.
They reviewed every prescription Jason had collected.
Every appointment he attended.
Every hospital visit.
One detail kept appearing.
Jason often insisted on speaking privately with nurses.
He claimed I was confused.
He claimed I forgot instructions.
He claimed I mixed medications.
He had been creating a medical record that made me look unreliable.
Then Marcus found a document uploaded to my patient portal.
A psychiatric assessment.
It stated that I displayed attention-seeking behavior.
It recommended limiting access to medication.
The assessment carried the signature of a psychiatrist I had never met.
The psychiatrist confirmed the signature was forged.
The document had been uploaded from our home internet connection.
Three weeks before the Europe trip.
Jason was preparing to explain the missing pills.
If I survived, he would say doctors had taken them away.
If I died, he would say I had misused them.
Every path protected him.
Until the emergency phone connected.
That forgotten device ruined everything.
Sophie asked to see me again.
This time, she brought a box.
“I took this from Mom’s hotel room before I called you.”
Inside were receipts.
SIM cards.
A small black notebook.
Margaret had written dates beside initials.
E.C.
J.C.
R.C.
A.P.
D.P.
Aaron Pike’s initials had been crossed out.
Dr. Patel’s initials had a circle around them.
Mine had a star.
“What does the star mean?” I asked.
Sophie looked sick.
“I don’t know.”
One page listed payments.
Hotel.
Car.
Storage.
Lab.
Cleanup.
The final entry read:
Cemetery—Thursday.
Thursday was two days away.
“Whose cemetery?” Laura asked.
Sophie flipped through the notebook.
A folded obituary fell out.
My father’s.
The police arrived at his grave before sunrise Thursday morning.
The cemetery was empty.
They watched from unmarked vehicles.
At 6:43 a.m., a black SUV entered.
A woman stepped out.
She wore a dark coat and a scarf over her hair.
Margaret.
She walked directly to my father’s grave.
Then she knelt and began digging beside the headstone with a small garden tool.
Police moved in.
Margaret looked up.
For one second, she froze.
Then she ran.
She reached the SUV.
The engine started.
The vehicle tore through the cemetery.
Two police cars followed.
The chase ended near a bridge.
Margaret lost control.
The SUV struck a barrier.
Airbags deployed.
Officers pulled her from the driver’s seat.
She was alive.
But Jason was not inside.
In the back of the SUV, police found a metal box.
Inside was my father’s original ledger.
The back page carried a handwritten note.
If anything happens to me, contact Daniel Harper.
I knew the name.
Daniel Harper had been my father’s closest friend.
He disappeared eleven years ago.
Police believed he had moved overseas.
Laura checked current records.
Daniel had never left the country.
He had been living under another name.
Only twenty miles from my house.
When police reached the address, the front door was open.
The living room was empty.
A kettle was boiling in the kitchen.
May you like
On the table sat two cups of tea.
And one chair was still warm.
