Chapter 8 - THE DOCTOR
Dr. Malcolm Voss denied everything.
He had been my obstetrician for seven months.
He smiled warmly.
Remembered my appointments.
Asked about names for the baby.
All while someone inside his clinic built a fictional portrait of me as unstable.
Naomi arranged an independent medical review.
The discrepancies were obvious.
Several psychiatric observations were entered on days I never visited.
One claimed Damian was present during a panic episode.
Billing records showed Dr. Voss had been in Miami that day.
Another note used wording copied almost exactly from a different patient’s chart.
Sloppy.
Arrogant.
Damian’s fingerprints without fingerprints.
When investigators contacted Merritt Private Health Services, the company claimed the payment from Wren Consulting involved “executive wellness consulting.”
Two million dollars.
For wellness.
Peter laughed when he read it.
Not because it was funny.
Because sometimes lies become insulting.
Then Dr. Voss requested to speak privately.
Through attorneys.
With protection.
Naomi returned from the meeting pale.
“He admitted altering records.”
My hands went numb.
“Because Damian paid him?”
“Indirectly.”
“How much?”
“Four hundred thousand.”
“And the rest?”
“We don’t know.”
“Will he testify?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
One brick fell out of the wall Damian built around me.
Then another.
That night, a fire started in Elena Ruiz’s apartment building.
Nobody was killed.
Her unit suffered the most damage.
The fire department had not yet announced a cause.
Damian’s lawyer immediately issued a statement denying any connection.
Nobody had accused him publicly.
That made the denial interesting.
My father called.
“Come stay with me.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“No.”
He stopped.
I appreciated it.
“I have security,” I said.
“I know.”
“I have Naomi.”
“I know.”
“I’m not going from Damian controlling me to you protecting me so aggressively that I can’t breathe.”
A long silence.
“You’re right.”
He exhaled.
“What can I do?”
“Be my father.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Another silence.
Then he said softly,
“I can do that.”
At 2 a.m., I woke with contractions.
The hospital admitted me for observation.
False labor.
Stress-induced.
My daughter remained safe.
My father sat outside the room because I had not invited him in.
Around dawn, I saw him asleep in a chair through the cracked door.
His head leaned against the wall.
Tie loosened.
Hands folded.
He looked less like Judge Nathaniel Ward than ever.
I opened the door.
“You can come inside.”
His eyes opened instantly.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He entered.
He did not hug me.
He sat.
At sunrise, Damian’s attorney arrived.
Not Damian.
The attorney handed Naomi an emergency petition.
Damian was seeking temporary medical decision-making authority over me.
His argument?
My hospitalization proved emotional instability.
He was still using the file.
Even after we knew it was fabricated.
Even after the doctor had begun cooperating.
Naomi read the petition twice.
Then smiled.
It was the first time I had seen her smile in days.
“What?”
She handed it to me.
“Damian just made a mistake.”
“What mistake?”
“He attached the medical records.”
“So?”
“So now he has formally submitted the falsified documents to a court.”
May you like
Her eyes sharpened.
“Your husband has stopped hiding the evidence.”
