Chapter 3
I wanted to turn around and confront whoever had sent that photograph.
Claire refused.
"Someone is watching us. That's exactly why we can't go home."
She drove toward North Atlanta, taking several unexpected turns.
I kept checking the mirrors.
Lily eventually fell asleep in the back seat.
Her little hand remained wrapped around the stuffed rabbit she'd brought from the reception.
I hated that this was becoming her childhood.
Secrets.
Threats.
Adults who couldn't be trusted.
Claire finally stopped outside a small private medical center.
"I called a doctor I trust."
I looked at the building.
"Who?"
"Dr. Hannah Brooks. She used to supervise rehabilitation cases at my hospital."
"Does she know my mother?"
"No."
That single word made me feel safer.
Dr. Brooks met us at a side entrance.
She was a Black woman in her early fifties with a calm voice and sharp, observant eyes.
She didn't rush toward my wheelchair.
She didn't treat me like a fragile object.
She shook my hand.
"Marcus, I understand you've had some unusual changes in your mobility."
I almost laughed.
"Apparently, I've been walking without knowing it."
Her expression remained serious.
"Then we need to understand why you didn't know."
She examined my legs.
Tested my reflexes.
Asked about pain, balance, and sensation.
Then she looked at my medication list.
Her brows tightened.
"Who prescribed all of this?"
"Dr. Cole."
"Every medication?"
"Yes."
She read the list twice.
Then she asked about the unmarked drops my mother gave me.
I described the bottles.
Dr. Brooks put down her pen.
"Until we identify those drops, I can't tell you what they contain. But this combination of prescribed medications could contribute to sedation and memory problems."
I felt sick.
"Could it make me forget walking?"
"Certain medications can impair memory. We need testing, and we need your full records."
She ordered blood work, toxicology testing, and imaging.
Then she asked a question nobody had asked me in eighteen months.
"Marcus, when was your last independent neurological evaluation?"
I stared at her.
"I don't know."
She looked at Claire.
"That's concerning."
The words were gentle.
But they hit me harder than anger would have.
For eighteen months, I'd trusted other people to tell me what my own body could do.
Dr. Brooks helped me stand again.
I held the examination table.
My legs trembled.
"Try shifting your weight."
I did.
"Good."
One step.
Then another.
I nearly cried.
Not because walking was easy.
It wasn't.
My muscles were weak, and my balance was terrible.
But the ability was there.
It had been there long enough for someone to hide it from me.
After the examination, Dr. Brooks spoke carefully.
"Your medical history is complicated. I can't promise how much function you'll regain. But I see no reason to accept a permanent inability to walk without reviewing the evidence."
I stared at the floor.
"I lost a year and a half."
Claire touched my shoulder.
"You haven't lost what comes next."
I wanted to believe her.
Around midnight, we reached Claire's townhouse.
She showed Lily to a guest bedroom.
My daughter woke long enough to ask one question.
"Daddy, are you going away?"
I knelt beside her bed, gripping the nightstand for balance.
"No, sweetheart."
"Grandma said sick people go away."
My chest hurt.
"Grandma was wrong."
She studied my face.
"Promise?"
I kissed her forehead.
"I promise I'll do everything I can to stay with you."
When she fell asleep, I returned to the living room.
Claire had spread documents across the coffee table.
Bank statements.
Foundation reports.
Copies of property transfers.
I recognized the Carter family logo.
"What is all this?"
"Naomi was an accountant before she married you. She started reviewing the foundation's records after noticing unexplained withdrawals."
I picked up a statement.
"Twenty-four million dollars?"
"Across several years."
"Where did it go?"
"Mostly through consulting companies that may not have provided real services."
I stared at the signatures.
Some looked like mine.
"These aren't all real."
Claire nodded.
"That's what Naomi suspected."
My heart pounded.
I had signed plenty of business documents before the accident.
Afterward, my mother brought papers to my room.
She said they were routine.
Sometimes I was too medicated to read them.
Sometimes I barely remembered signing.
Claire placed another document in front of me.
It was a petition for emergency conservatorship.
My mother had asked a court to give her control over my financial and personal decisions.
Attached was a medical assessment signed by Dr. Cole.
According to the report, I could not understand complex matters or make reliable decisions.
I stared at the date.
It was written four months after my accident.
I remembered that month.
I'd been able to discuss contracts.
Read books.
Help Lily with homework.
But my mother had insisted I was still confused.
"Did the court approve this?" I asked.
"Limited authority over certain financial matters. Naomi's attorney challenged some provisions before the hearing, but she was already dead by then. I only recently found the final order."
I rubbed my face.
"So my mother controls my money."
"A significant portion, yes."
"And she wanted me to believe I couldn't walk."
Claire didn't answer.
She didn't have to.
I picked up Naomi's photograph.
My wife had been trying to protect us.
And I'd spent the last year grieving her without knowing what she'd discovered.
"How did she die?" I whispered.
Claire looked at me.
"The official report says a mechanical failure caused her car to leave the highway."
"I know what the report says."
She hesitated.
Then she opened a folder.
"Naomi told me someone had been threatening her. She planned to meet an investigator the morning she died."
"What investigator?"
Claire handed me a business card.
Samuel Price.
Private Investigations.
I stood too quickly.
Pain shot through my legs.
"Where is he?"
"Marcus, sit down."
"Where?"
Claire swallowed.
"He's been missing for almost two years."
I stared at her.
"Missing?"
"The week after Naomi's funeral, his office closed. His family said he left without explaining where he was going."
I looked at the card.
A handwritten number had been added on the back.
There was also one word.
MILLBROOK.
I recognized it.
An old Carter family property outside Atlanta.
The place my father used to take me fishing.
My mother had sold it shortly after Naomi died.
Or so she claimed.
Suddenly, I remembered something.
Two nights before her death, Naomi had returned home with dirt on her shoes.
She wouldn't tell me where she'd been.
Instead, she'd hugged Lily and cried.
Then she whispered to me.
"Your father left you something your mother doesn't want you to find."
I looked at Claire.
"Millbrook wasn't sold."
"How do you know?"
"Because my father told me never to sell it without checking the old study."
Before Claire could respond, her phone rang.
An unfamiliar number.
She answered on speaker.
A man's voice spoke.
"Is Marcus Carter with you?"
I froze.
Claire looked at me.
"Who's asking?"
The man paused.
"Tell Marcus his wife didn't die because of a broken brake line."
I gripped the edge of the table.
"Who are you?"
Another pause.
May you like
Then the man whispered.
"Samuel Price."
