Vivian’s laugh cuts through the recording.
“That ungrateful little girl abandoned you. Sign, or you can wait until morning for your pain medication.”
The blood drains from Vivian’s face.
Marcus’s smile disappears.
You stop the recording.
“That was sent to me by your night nurse,” you say. “Along with six others.”
Vivian’s eyes flash. “That woman violated privacy laws.”
“No,” you say. “She reported elder abuse.”
Marcus scoffs. “Elder abuse? He’s dramatic. He falls. He refuses care. Mom is the only one dealing with him.”
You look at your father, then at the tea stain, the bruises, the way his right hand curls inward from pain.
“Then she won’t mind explaining that to the police.”
Vivian’s jaw tightens.
“Police?” she repeats.
You hear the faint sound of tires on gravel outside.
Perfect timing.
Vivian hears it too.
Her eyes dart toward the windows.
You walk to the front door and open it.
Two police officers stand on the porch, along with a woman in a gray suit. Behind them is your father’s private nurse, Angela, pale but steady, clutching a folder to her chest.
The woman in the suit steps forward first.
“Isabella Hale?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Detective Laura Bennett with the Greenwich Police Department’s financial crimes and elder abuse unit.”
Vivian’s composure cracks for half a second.
Then she performs outrage.
“This is absurd,” she says, sweeping forward. “My husband is recovering from a serious accident, and his disturbed daughter has staged some dramatic—”
Detective Bennett holds up one hand.
