Chapter 3 - The Medical File That Shouldn't Exist
I replayed that sentence six times.
Victor had been lying about my heart.
It made no sense.
My congenital condition was real. I'd undergone procedures since childhood.
Victor couldn't have invented that.
But my mother wasn't talking about the diagnosis.
She was talking about control.
The video continued.
“When you were nineteen, your cardiologist cleared you for independent living. Victor convinced your father you were too fragile. He exaggerated every episode. Every fainting spell. Every hospitalization.”
My stomach tightened.
Memories rearranged themselves.
College overseas.
Victor said no.
A job in Seattle.
Victor persuaded Dad it was too far from my specialists.
Living alone at twenty-three.
Victor convinced my parents I needed someone nearby.
I had always blamed my father for being overprotective.
Maybe the fear hadn't started with him.
Mom continued.
“We recently learned Victor has been obtaining copies of your medical records without authorization.”
I froze.
Why?
Then she answered.
“He was preparing a competency petition.”
My skin went cold.
Victor didn't merely want me frightened.
He wanted me legally incapable of controlling my inheritance.
I called Brooks immediately.
By morning, she had obtained the name of a lawyer Victor had contacted.
The petition was already drafted.
It described me as medically unstable, cognitively impaired by repeated oxygen deprivation, emotionally incapable of managing complex financial affairs.
Almost none of it was true.
But Victor had collected twenty years of medical history to make it sound plausible.
“He planned this before your parents died,” Brooks said.
I stared at her.
“Which means their deaths weren't an impulsive decision.”
“No.”
That hurt more.
Victor hadn't snapped.
He had planned.
Calculated.
Waited.
The man who attended my birthdays had apparently spent months preparing to steal my life.
We needed him talking.
Brooks proposed surveillance.
I proposed something better.
Let Victor think he was winning.
Two days later, I called him.
“I'll sign.”
Silence.
Then warmth flooded his voice.
“That's my girl.”
He arrived within an hour.
I wore pajamas.
No makeup.
I deliberately left my oxygen equipment beside the bed.
Victor's confidence returned immediately.
He opened his briefcase.
“Nothing frightening here.”
I scanned the papers.
Temporary authority had become permanent.
The medical proxy allowed Victor extraordinary control if I became unconscious.
The estate document transferred voting authority over my shares.
Another document gave Hale Holdings a purchase option on the land.
He had become greedy.
Greedy men make mistakes.
“I can't read all this.”
“You don't need to.”
“I trust you.”
The words nearly made me sick.
Victor smiled.
“There she is.”
He reached for a pen.
I deliberately dropped it.
When Victor bent to retrieve it, I saw something inside his briefcase.
A photograph.
My parents.
The restaurant parking lot.
Taken before the shooting.
Victor snapped the case closed.
Too late.
I had seen it.
And he had seen me see it.
For three seconds, neither of us moved.
Then Victor smiled.
But it was different now.
“Something wrong?”
“No.”
He studied my face.
I knew the game had changed.
That evening, Brooks called.
“Victor contacted Raymond Pike twenty minutes after leaving your house.”
“Can you hear the conversation?”
“No. But we know they spoke.”
“Then he's scared.”
“Claire, I want you out of that house tonight.”
I looked around the bedroom where my mother used to tuck blankets around me after surgeries.
“No.”
“This isn't television. If he suspects you—”
“He won't get another chance if I disappear.”
Brooks went quiet.
“What are you suggesting?”
I looked at the oxygen mask beside me.
Victor believed my heart was my weakness.
Maybe it could become the bait.
May you like
“I want him to think I'm alone.”
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