Chapter 6 - The Man Who Told Us to Give Up
Conrad came to the hospital the following morning.
He brought no flowers.
Prescott stopped him outside the family waiting room.
I stepped into the corridor before the exchange could become loud.
My uncle looked offended.
That almost made me laugh.
“You’ve stopped answering my calls,” he said.
“I’ve been busy.”
“With strangers?”
“With my children.”
He glanced toward Prescott.
“Can we speak privately?”
“No.”
His mouth tightened.
“Lawson, I helped raise you.”
“You helped manage my inheritance.”
“That’s an ugly thing to say.”
“So are several things I’ve learned.”
For the first time, he seemed uncertain how much I knew.
He lowered his voice.
“Elena Ward is a convicted thief.”
“Yes.”
“She stole confidential medical records.”
“She also wrote to me from prison.”
Conrad went still.
“You intercepted her letter.”
“I protected you from harassment while you were grieving.”
“What were you protecting me from six weeks ago?”
His eyes flicked toward the closed hospital doors.
I watched the movement.
“Ask Yates,” he said.
“I intend to.”
Conrad stepped closer.
“You are exhausted. You’re surrounding yourself with people who see an opportunity.”
I thought of Elena’s wet shoes.
Her canvas bag.
The way she had asked for nothing.
Then I looked at my uncle’s watch.
It cost more than most people earned in a year.
“Leave.”
“Lawson—”
“You will not see the children. You will not speak to their doctors. Anything you need to say goes through my attorney.”
His face hardened.
There he was.
The man beneath the concern.
“You think you can cut me out of everything?”
“No,” I said. “I think auditors will take some time.”
He left without another word.
Prescott watched the elevator close.
“That went better than I expected.”
“I have very low expectations of myself.”
“Working on them would be useful.”
I looked at him.
He had served me for eleven years.
It was the first time he had said something like that.
“Apparently everyone has become brave.”
“No, sir. Just tired.”
Inside the waiting room, Elena was staring at her phone.
“What happened?”
“My old attorney called. Investigators have requested records from the clinic relating to my case.”
I sat beside her.
“Will it help?”
“It might.”
She looked afraid to want it.
I understood that now.
Hope could feel like a place where someone waited to hurt you.
That afternoon, Chen asked to speak with me.
Her team had completed enough review to recommend a new plan.
Not a rescue pulled from an old piece of paper.
A plan based on current tests, the twins’ condition, and expertise they should have had access to earlier.
There were steps to stabilize them.
Further treatment might become possible.
For one of the twins, an advanced therapy program deserved urgent evaluation.
For the other, the sequence might differ.
“They are siblings,” Chen said, “but they are not one patient. We have to respond to each child.”
I nodded.
“Will they live?”
She held my gaze.
“We are going to try very hard. I can’t promise you the outcome.”
I hated that sentence.
Then I realized I trusted it more than Yates’s certainty.
That evening, investigators asked Yates to provide devices and records through formal channels.
His hospital privileges were placed under review while the institution examined the omissions.
The news reached me through my attorney.
There was no dramatic confession.
No man dragged away from a bedside.
Just access restricted, records preserved, questions becoming difficult to avoid.
I went into Jonah’s room.
He was awake.
“Dad?”
“I’m here.”
“Blythe says the new doctor is bossy.”
“She’s very qualified.”
“Can she be bossy at the sickness?”
I swallowed.
“She’s trying.”
He considered that.
Then he lifted his hand.
I took it carefully.
“Tell her I said please,” he whispered.
I bent my head until my forehead touched the edge of his blanket.
May you like
For years, men had done what I demanded because they feared refusing.
My son had just taught me a better way to ask.
