Chapter 6 - The Wounds We Carry
The private room on the fourth floor of St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital was quiet, bathed in the soft, warm light of a morning sun that finally broke through the clouds.
Dr. Aris Thorne, a senior pediatrician with forty years of medical experience, stood by the foot of Julian’s bed, reviewing the diagnostic charts on his tablet. His face was grave, his brow furrowed in deep concentration.
Julian was propped up against three plush pillows, clean, wearing a soft pair of navy blue hospital pajamas. An IV drip was connected to his thin arm, slowly administering fluids and essential vitamins. He was fast asleep, holding a brand-new stuffed bear that a nurse had brought him.
In the corner armchair, Elena was sleeping soundly under a thick heated blanket, her face pale but finally relaxed after receiving two bags of saline and nutritional supplements.
I stood by the window, my arms crossed over my chest, watching my son’s chest rise and fall.
"Mr. Vance," Dr. Thorne said softly, gesturing toward the hallway.
I stepped quietly out of the room, closing the door until only a tiny sliver remained open.
"How are they, Doctor?" I asked, my voice tight with anxiety.
Dr. Thorne sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Physically... it’s severe, but reversible. Julian is suffering from Stage 2 chronic malnutrition, vitamin D deficiency, and mild scurvy. His bone density is lower than it should be for a nine-year-old boy. If this had continued for another three to six months... he would have faced permanent organ damage."
I closed my eyes, pressing my fist against the cool drywall of the corridor.
"And Elena?" I asked softly.
"Your wife has lost nearly forty-five pounds since her last recorded medical checkup three years ago," Thorne reported grimly. "She has severe anemia and muscle atrophy. But the psychological damage, Mr. Vance... that’s what concerns me most."
"What do you mean?"
"Your mother brought a private physician—a Dr. Kenneth Lyle—to the estate two years ago," Thorne explained, pulling up a medical file on his screen. "Lyle prescribed heavy doses of anti-psychotic medications to your wife, claiming she was suffering from paranoid schizophrenia. Those medications were completely unwarranted. They were used as a chemical restraint to keep her weak, compliant, and unable to seek help."
A dark, lethal fury surged in my veins. Dr. Kenneth Lyle. Another name for the list.
"Is Dr. Lyle’s name in the police file?" I demanded.
"Detective Miller has already issued a subpoena for Lyle’s medical license and records," Dr. Thorne assured me. "Your wife’s blood tests show heavy toxicity from those drugs. We are flushing them from her system now, but she will experience severe withdrawal symptoms, night terrors, and anxiety over the next few weeks."
"I don't care how long it takes," I said, looking through the glass window at Elena’s sleeping face. "I have all the time in the world."
The elevator doors at the end of the hall opened with a quiet chime.
Sarah Vance walked out, carrying a sleek leather briefcase and two large cups of coffee. She handed one to me, her face pale from lack of sleep.
"The bail hearing just concluded at the county courthouse," Sarah reported, taking a quick sip of her coffee.
"Did they get out?" I asked, my voice dropping into an icy tone.
Sarah smiled—a ruthless, razor-sharp expression. "Judge Brooks tried to set bail at $50,000 for Evelyn, citing her age and community standing. But Detective Miller and I presented the federal indictment and the medical report Dr. Thorne issued two hours ago."
"And?"
"The Federal Magistrate stepped in and revoked jurisdiction from Brooks," Sarah said triumphantly. "Evelyn and Victoria have been remanded to the Federal Detention Center in Philadelphia without bail pending trial. The grand jury is being convened on Monday."
I took a slow sip of the hot coffee, feeling its warmth spread through my chest, but my mind remained laser-focused.
"What about the assets?" I asked.
"Every account is frozen," Sarah said. "I filed an emergency motion for a lis pendens on the estate, effectively stripping Evelyn’s trust of all legal control. The title of 1422 Sycamore Lane will be officially restored to your name by court order before the week is out."
She paused, looking at me intently. "Marcus... Victoria’s defense attorney reached out to me thirty minutes ago. He wants to discuss a plea deal."
I let out a cold, bitter laugh. "A plea deal?"
"He says Victoria is willing to testify fully against Evelyn—detailing how Evelyn orchestrated the forgery, the conservatorship, and the medical drugging—in exchange for a reduced sentence on the fraud charges."
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I turned my back to the hallway, looking through the window at my son sleeping peacefully in his bed, holding his stuffed bear.
"Tell her attorney," I whispered, "that my sister can rot in the same cell as my mother. No deals. No mercy. I want maximum consecutive sentences for both of them."
