Chapter 8 - The Fake Doctor’s Secret Prescription
The betrayal cut deeper than any blade.
Derek. Emily’s brother, the man I had bailed out of debt three times, the man I invited to every holiday dinner, the uncle my daughters called "Uncle Dare."
"Calvin, bring up Derek’s financial records right now," I commanded, walking toward the mansion's private surveillance hub.
Within two minutes, Calvin cracked Derek's bank accounts. "Three large wire transfers over the last ninety days. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars each, originating from an offshore shell corporation managed by Helen Dawson's brother in the Cayman Islands."
"He sold out his own sister's children," I whispered, the bitter taste of bile rising in my throat.
"Derek is the secondary beneficiary of Emily’s trust fund if the children are declared legally incompetent or placed under institutional guardianship," Calvin stated grimly. "Helen promised him half the estate."
"Where is Derek right now?"
"He just entered the main house," Calvin warned. "He's heading toward the nursery wing with Dr. Paul Vance."
I didn't wait for Atlanta. I didn't wait for the sun to go down.
I motioned to Sarah, who was waiting in the basement monitoring room under Calvin's protection. "Sarah, stay on the cameras. Calvin, draw your weapon. It's time to end this."
We moved through the service stairwell like phantoms. The thick carpets of the estate muffled our footsteps as we reached the second floor of the east wing.
Through the frosted double glass doors of the nursery ante-room, I heard voices.
"The dosage needs to be strong enough to mimic acute lethargy and hypoglycemia when Child Protective Services arrives at 2:00 AM," Dr. Paul Vance’s voice was unmistakable—clinical, detached, and devoid of soul. "If the girls are semi-conscious when the paramedics arrive, Nathan will be arrested for gross criminal negligence on the spot."
"Good," Derek’s voice sneered. "Nathan thinks he's untouchable with his millions. He spent two years ignoring everything while Helen ran the show. He deserves to spend the rest of his life in a federal penitentiary."
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"Make sure the silver tray is photographed with the untouched food," Helen added smoothly. "It creates the perfect visual record of chronic parental neglect."
I kicked the heavy oak doors open with such force that the hinges splintered from the frame.
