Chapter 6 - The Doctor Who Refused to Believe My Story
The following morning, a physician I had never met entered my hospital room.
He introduced himself as Dr. Victor Hale, a consulting geriatric psychiatrist.
He carried a tablet and wore the polished expression of someone accustomed to being accepted without questions.
"Mrs. Mercer, I'd like to ask you a few things."
"Certainly."
"Do you know today's date?"
"Sunday, September twentieth."
"And where are we?"
"Westbridge General Hospital."
"Can you tell me who the current president is?"
I answered.
He smiled thinly.
"Very good."
I knew the routine.
These questions were commonly used as part of cognitive screening.
Under normal circumstances, I would have welcomed a proper medical assessment.
But Dr. Hale's next question made me suspicious.
"Have you recently accused family members of stealing from you?"
"Yes."
"Do you believe your daughter-in-law wishes to harm you?"
"She already has."
He tapped his tablet.
"Sometimes, following stressful incidents, people interpret events in ways that feel entirely real to them."
I stared at him.
"Are you suggesting the assault was imaginary?"
"I'm suggesting we should examine every possibility."
I pointed toward my shoulder.
"Did I imagine the bruising?"
"Physical injuries can occur through accidental falls."
"And the audio recording?"
He hesitated.
"I haven't reviewed it."
"Then perhaps you should before forming conclusions."
His expression tightened.
"Mrs. Mercer, I'm only trying to help."
"And I'm trying to understand who requested this consultation."
"Your son expressed concerns about your mental health."
"When?"
"Yesterday."
Daniel.
Again.
I asked Dr. Hale whether hospital staff had requested him independently or whether he had been contacted by an outside party.
He admitted that Cassandra had supplied background information.
At that moment, Rebecca entered the room.
She took one look at my expression and placed her handbag on the chair.
"What happened?"
I explained.
Rebecca turned toward the physician.
"Doctor, are you conducting an independent clinical evaluation?"
"Of course."
"Then I assume you have reviewed the medical findings, the patient's account, and the documented circumstances of her injuries."
He shifted uncomfortably.
"I've only just begun."
"Have you communicated with the investigating officers?"
"No."
"Have you disclosed your prior relationship, if any, with the relatives who requested your involvement?"
His mouth tightened.
"What are you implying?"
"Nothing. I'm asking."
After several uncomfortable seconds, Dr. Hale acknowledged that he had previously performed private assessments for clients referred by Arthur Bell.
Rebecca wrote that down.
She did not accuse him of wrongdoing.
She simply requested that any report clearly identify its sources, limitations, and potential conflicts.
Later, the hospital arranged a separate assessment through its own established clinical process.
I participated fully.
I had nothing to hide.
By afternoon, the independent physician documented that I was oriented, capable of discussing my circumstances coherently, and able to participate in decisions about my care.
The findings did not magically resolve every legal issue.
But they undermined Cassandra's attempt to portray me as incapable of understanding the property dispute.
Helen celebrated by bringing me homemade chicken soup.
"It tastes better than hospital food," she announced.
"Almost everything does."
She sat beside my bed.
"Have you thought about what you'll do when they discharge you?"
"I'm staying with you temporarily."
"Good."
"And then I'm going home."
Her smile faded.
"Evelyn..."
"I'm not surrendering my house."
"I know. I just want you safe."
"So do I."
That evening, Ortiz called with an update.
The police had obtained a warrant to examine the storage system associated with Richard's security cameras.
The physical recorder was missing.
But the secondary cloud account remained active.
Cassandra apparently hadn't known about it.
The kitchen recording existed.
So did footage from the hallway.
Ortiz explained that technicians were verifying timestamps and preserving the files before drawing conclusions.
Then he asked an unexpected question.
"Judge Mercer, why did your husband install a camera outside his study?"
I smiled faintly.
"He liked knowing who entered the room. It contained family records, business archives, and expensive camera equipment."
"Did Daniel have access?"
"Yes."
"Cassandra?"
"Only after they moved in."
There was a pause.
"We found footage of someone entering the study late Wednesday night."
"Who?"
"We're still confirming the sequence. But it appears to be Cassandra."
I looked toward Helen.
"What did she take?"
"We can see a box being carried out. We don't yet know what's inside."
I knew.
Or rather, I suspected.
Richard kept a small fireproof document box beneath his desk.
It held old correspondence, legal records, and personal letters.
One of those letters had been written during the final months of his life.
He told me not to open it until I felt ready.
After the funeral, I placed the envelope inside the box.
Then grief overtook me.
Years passed.
I almost forgot it existed.
Almost.
Now Arthur Bell had called specifically to warn me about a letter from Richard.
And Cassandra had entered my husband's study the night before attacking me.
I asked Ortiz whether he had recovered the box.
"Not yet."
"Detective, please understand something. My husband was meticulous. If he wrote a letter with specific instructions, there was a reason."
"We're working on it."
After ending the call, I sat quietly.
Helen watched me.
"What's wrong?"
I looked down at my wedding ring.
"Richard knew something."
"About Cassandra?"
"No. Cassandra wasn't part of our lives when he died."
"Then what?"
I thought of Arthur Bell.
The trust.
The old signatures.
The unexplained financial transfers.
And the warning my husband had apparently left behind.
"I think Richard discovered something about a person he trusted."
That night, I received another unfamiliar call.
This time, nobody spoke.
I heard faint breathing.
Then a woman whispered:
"Stop looking for the letter, Evelyn."
I recognized the voice immediately.
Cassandra.
Before I could answer, she added:
"Your husband kept secrets from you. Believe me, you don't want to know what they were."
The line went dead.
I sat in darkness, holding the telephone.
For the first time since the assault, I wasn't merely angry.
I was frightened.
May you like
Not because Cassandra threatened me.
But because she seemed to know something about Richard that I didn't.
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