Chapter 7 - The Missing WitnessThe witness's name was Daniel Reeves.
He had been my grandfather's personal driver.
He was forty-two when Richard died.
His last recorded address was an apartment in Chicago.
The apartment had been empty for years.
My lawyer slid another photograph across the table.
Daniel.
Standing beside my grandfather.
I studied the image.
He looked nervous.
“Why would he disappear?”
“We don't know.”
“Could he be dead?”
“We don't know that either.”
I stared at the file.
Something bothered me.
“What happened three days before he disappeared?”
My lawyer turned another page.
“Daniel contacted the police.”
“For what?”
“He wanted to report something.”
“What?”
She pushed a transcript toward me.
His statement was short.
He claimed he had driven Richard to a private meeting the night before his death.
With Thomas.
My pulse increased.
“What happened at the meeting?”
“Daniel didn't finish the statement.”
“Why?”
“Because he left the station before giving the full details.”
“What?”
“He got a phone call.”
“From whom?”
“Unknown.”
Then he disappeared.
I sat back.
My father's threat suddenly made sense.
He wasn't bluffing.
There were secrets buried around my grandfather's death.
And my father was terrified I would uncover them.
That afternoon, I went to the hospital where I had been treated fifteen years ago.
I requested my childhood medical records.
The administrator initially refused.
Then my lawyer produced documents establishing my legal rights.
Two hours later, I was holding a box.
A box containing the most painful years of my life.
I opened it.
Blood tests.
Chemotherapy charts.
Nursing notes.
Medication logs.
I turned page after page.
Then I found it.
An amended chemotherapy order.
The original prescription called for one dosage.
The amended version showed another.
The change had been made electronically.
The authorizing physician's name appeared at the bottom.
Dr. Samuel Grant.
I recognized the name.
He was the oncologist who had treated me during my first month.
I searched the records.
Then I found something even stranger.
Three days after the dosage change, Dr. Grant resigned.
No explanation.
No forwarding address.
My stomach dropped.
I called Laura.
“Do you remember Dr. Grant?”
She was silent.
“Yes.”
“What happened to him?”
“I never knew.”
“Mom, someone changed my medication.”
Silence.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m looking at the record.”
She took a breath.
“Emily, listen to me.”
“What?”
“Don't assume your father did it.”
I frowned.
“You've been telling me to be careful.”
“I am.”
“Then who else could have done it?”
She hesitated.
“Your grandfather.”
I stared at the record.
“Why would he?”
“I don't know.”
“Then why would you say that?”
“Because I remember something.”
“What?”
“Before your treatment began, your grandfather came to the hospital.”
My heart jumped.
“What did he do?”
“He spoke privately to Dr. Grant.”
“When?”
“The day before your first chemotherapy.”
“What did they discuss?”
“I don't know.”
“You saw them.”
“Yes.”
“Did they argue?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Laura's voice dropped.
“Your grandfather gave Dr. Grant a sealed envelope.”
My blood ran cold.
“What was inside?”
“I don't know.”
“Did Dr. Grant open it?”
“No.”
“Then what happened?”
“He left.”
I stared at the medical record.
Maybe my grandfather had anticipated something.
Maybe he had been protecting me.
Or maybe there was something darker.
I needed answers.
I found Dr. Grant's old address.
It took my lawyer three days to locate a possible current residence.
I drove there myself.
The house was small.
Weathered.
A man opened the door.
He was older now.
Gray hair.
Tired eyes.
I showed him my identification.
“Dr. Samuel Grant?”
He looked at me.
Then his face went white.
“You survived.”
I froze.
“What do you mean?”
He looked over his shoulder.
May you like
Then he whispered:
“Your father told me you wouldn't.”
