Chapter 3
Dr. Mercer—no, not Mercer. My doctor was not here. Edwin called Dr. Elias Hart, the rehabilitation specialist overseeing my recovery.
He arrived before noon.
Lucia objected immediately.
“You already had an appointment tomorrow.”
“I changed it.”
“You can’t summon people every time you panic.”
I looked at her.
“I own the house.”
That ended that.
Dr. Hart reviewed the bottles first.
Then my schedule.
Then he stopped.
“This isn’t what I prescribed.”
I felt something in me go cold.
“What changed?”
“The spacing.”
He pointed to the handwritten card kept inside the cabinet.
My doses had been spread farther apart than intended.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
An extra hour here.
Two hours there.
Long enough for pain and spasm to break through before the next dose.
Lucia crossed her arms. “You adjusted it yourself.”
Hart looked at her.
“No.”
“You told us to reduce dependency.”
“I said we would reduce gradually after week six.”
He tapped the card.
“This started in week two.”
I looked at Edwin.
“Who wrote it?”
He knew the handwriting.
So did I.
Lucia.
She laughed.
“You were barely coherent after the attack. Somebody had to make decisions.”
Hart’s face hardened.
“You cannot improvise medication timing because you dislike how a patient behaves.”
“He was becoming dependent.”
“No,” Hart said. “He was recovering from nerve trauma.”
Silence.
Grant stepped in.
“Same practical problem. He couldn’t function.”
I looked at him.
“When did that become your concern?”
He smiled.
“When half the captains started asking who runs Santoro if you never get out of that chair.”
There it was.
Not care.
Succession.
Lucia glared at him.
Too late.
I leaned back.
“How many captains?”
Grant stopped smiling.
I did not need the answer immediately.
I already knew enough.
The missed medication was not being hidden from everyone.
May you like
It was being hidden from me.
The worsening symptoms were being shown to everyone else.
