Chapter 4 - THE DOCTOR GRANT HAD ALREADY BOUGHT
Claire did not swallow the pills.
Grant watched until she placed them on her tongue.
He watched her lift the water.
Watched her swallow.
Then he collected the empty glass and left.
Only when both locks turned did Claire crawl toward the toilet.
She spit the tablets into her palm.
Their coating had already begun dissolving.
She wrapped them inside toilet paper and pushed them beneath the loose edge of the baseboard.
Then she drank water directly from the faucet.
She needed her mind clear.
Grant was bringing a doctor.
Which meant the next performance was not Grant’s.
It was hers.
At nine the next morning, footsteps descended the stairs.
Grant entered with a man Claire had never met.
Dr. Philip Kent was broad-shouldered, gray-haired, and dressed more like an investment banker than a psychiatrist.
He wore a navy suit.
No tie.
Expensive watch.
Leather medical bag.
He paused at the bottom of the stairs.
His eyes moved over Claire’s surroundings.
If he was shocked by the basement, he hid it better than Marshall.
“Claire,” Grant said, “this is Dr. Kent.”
Claire remained on the mattress.
“Hello.”
Kent pulled a folding chair closer.
“May I sit?”
“It’s Grant’s basement.”
A flicker of irritation crossed Grant’s face.
Kent smiled.
“I’m asking you.”
Claire nodded.
Kent sat.
Grant remained standing behind him.
Claire noticed immediately.
A doctor conducting an independent psychiatric evaluation should not want the supposedly abusive source of stress hovering three feet away.
Kent apparently did not care.
“How are you feeling?”
“Pregnant.”
Kent smiled again.
“Physically?”
“Tired.”
“Emotionally?”
“Concerned.”
“About?”
Claire looked at Grant.
“My husband locked me in a basement.”
Grant exhaled loudly.
Kent wrote something.
Claire watched the pen move.
Noted.
Not questioned.
“What reason has Grant given you for keeping you here?”
“He says I’m unstable.”
“Do you feel unstable?”
“No.”
“Have you had thoughts about harming yourself?”
“No.”
“Your baby?”
“No.”
“Anyone else?”
“No.”
Grant shifted.
Kent continued.
“Grant says you’ve made several threatening statements.”
“What statements?”
Kent looked down.
“He reports that you said nobody would get the baby if you couldn’t.”
Claire stared.
She had never said that.
“When?”
“Two nights ago.”
“I was locked in this room two nights ago.”
“Yes.”
“With a camera.”
Kent glanced upward.
Claire followed his eyes.
“So there should be a recording.”
Grant answered.
“The camera doesn’t record audio.”
Claire looked at him.
“You told me it did.”
“I said it records for safety.”
“You said the camera would prove what I say.”
Grant’s lips flattened.
Kent held up one hand.
“We’re not here to argue.”
Claire almost smiled.
Marshall had said essentially the same thing.
Apparently Grant hired men who disliked inconvenient questions.
Kent asked about her childhood.
Her marriage.
Previous mental-health history.
There was none.
Medication.
None.
Hospitalizations.
None.
Family psychiatric history.
None she knew of.
The questions became more specific.
“Do you believe people are conspiring against you?”
Claire considered that.
“Yes.”
Kent’s pen moved faster.
Grant almost smiled.
Claire continued.
“Because I heard them doing it.”
Kent stopped writing.
Grant’s face hardened.
“Heard whom?”
“My husband and his attorney.”
“Discussing what?”
“A forged signature and having me declared incompetent before my daughter is born.”
Kent glanced at Grant.
Not surprised.
That told Claire everything.
Kent knew.
Maybe not every detail.
But he had been briefed.
“Did you record this conversation?” he asked.
Grant’s eyes snapped toward her.
Claire made herself laugh weakly.
“With what?”
Kent watched her.
“My husband took my phone.”
Grant relaxed.
Claire continued.
“And I’m locked in a concrete basement.”
Kent wrote again.
Claire wondered what he was putting on the page.
Paranoid ideation.
Persecutory delusion.
Fixation.
Probably all the phrases Grant wanted.
So Claire changed tactics.
“Doctor, may I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“What would you normally do if a thirty-two-week-pregnant patient told you her husband had confined her against her will?”
Kent’s face went still.
Grant spoke.
“She isn’t confined.”
Claire pointed toward the door.
“Can I leave?”
Kent said nothing.
Claire stood.
Slowly.
Her back screamed.
She walked toward the stairs.
Grant moved between her and the door.
Kent watched.
Claire stopped.
“I would like to leave.”
“No.”
Grant’s response was immediate.
Claire looked at Kent.
“Am I medically detained under your authority?”
“No.”
“Is there a court order?”
Grant said, “Enough.”
Claire ignored him.
“Did you certify me as a danger before coming here?”
Kent’s jaw tightened.
“No.”
“Then why is a psychiatrist sitting in a locked basement evaluating a patient whose husband physically prevents her from leaving?”
Grant stepped forward.
“Claire.”
Kent raised his voice.
“Grant.”
That surprised everyone.
Kent stood.
For the first time, uncertainty appeared in his expression.
Maybe he had expected a distressed, incoherent woman.
Maybe Grant had told him she would be ranting.
Instead he had found an articulate pregnant woman calmly asking the questions he should have asked himself.
Kent lowered his voice.
“Perhaps we should continue upstairs.”
Grant stared at him.
“No.”
Claire saw it again.
A crack.
Small.
But real.
Kent had entered as Grant’s expert.
He was beginning to realize Grant expected more than a favorable opinion.
Grant expected participation.
Kent sat again.
“Claire, have you been eating?”
She looked at the dog bowl.
Kent followed her gaze.
His face changed.
Grant said quickly, “That was one incident.”
Kent looked at him.
“What incident?”
“She refused food.”
“So you brought dog food?”
“It was symbolic.”
Claire almost admired the insanity of the answer.
Kent closed his notebook.
“I think I have enough for today.”
Grant’s eyes narrowed.
“You’ve been here twenty minutes.”
“I said I have enough.”
The two men went upstairs.
Claire hurried toward the vent.
Their voices came through minutes later.
Grant spoke first.
“You said you could handle this.”
Kent answered.
“I said I could evaluate her.”
“She’s unstable.”
“She’s angry.”
“She’s paranoid.”
“She correctly identified that you’re confining her.”
Claire closed her eyes.
Kent might still be corrupt.
But he was not willing to call obvious reality a delusion.
Grant lowered his voice.
“You know what’s at stake.”
“I know what you told me.”
“And?”
“And you did not tell me she was locked in a basement.”
“She threatened herself.”
“Then where is the emergency-room assessment?”
Grant said nothing.
Kent continued.
“Where are the obstetric records?”
“Marshall is obtaining them.”
“I asked you for them before I came.”
“You don’t need them.”
“I absolutely do.”
Grant’s voice became cold.
“Philip.”
Claire’s eyes opened.
Philip.
Not Dr. Kent.
They knew each other personally.
Kent’s reply dropped.
“Don’t.”
Grant said, “I financed your clinic.”
There it was.
Claire fumbled for the hidden phone.
Five percent battery.
She activated Record.
Kent said, “That does not make me your employee.”
“It makes you someone who understands loyalty.”
“I understand liability.”
Grant laughed softly.
“You signed the preliminary statement.”
Claire’s breath caught.
Kent went silent.
Grant continued.
“You already stated Claire demonstrated symptoms consistent with acute perinatal psychosis.”
“I stated that based on what you reported.”
“And the distinction will fit nicely in a footnote.”
“You said she was refusing evaluation.”
“She was.”
“You told me she had threatened the fetus.”
“She did.”
“She denies it.”
“Of course she denies it.”
Kent’s voice became quieter.
“Grant, what exactly are you trying to do?”
Claire held the phone beneath the vent.
Grant did not answer immediately.
Then:
“I need an incapacity determination before the child is born.”
Kent swore.
“You told me this was about getting her treatment.”
“It is.”
“No. This is about the trust.”
Silence.
Claire stopped breathing.
Kent knew about the trust too.
Grant replied.
“You have forty-eight hours.”
“No.”
“Then I send Marshall the documentation on the clinic loan.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t I?”
Claire’s hands tightened.
Blackmail.
Grant was blackmailing his own psychiatrist.
Kent said, “If something happens to that woman or the baby, I am not being dragged into it.”
“Nothing will happen.”
“She’s thirty-two weeks pregnant and you’re feeding her dog food in a basement.”
“That happened once.”
“That sentence is not the defense you think it is.”
Claire almost laughed.
Grant did not.
The conversation ended with a door slamming.
Claire stopped the recording.
Four percent.
She saved it.
Then the basement door opened.
Grant descended alone.
His composure was gone.
He came down too quickly.
Claire backed toward the wall.
He stopped inches from her.
“You think you’re clever.”
Claire said nothing.
“Rebecca talked to Patel.”
Claire’s heart jumped.
Grant watched her face carefully.
“You didn’t know?”
Claire stayed silent.
“She’s causing problems.”
“She’s worried.”
“She’s interfering.”
Grant crouched.
His voice became soft.
“I need you to understand something.”
Claire stared at him.
“If Rebecca decides to make this difficult, she will lose too.”
“What does that mean?”
“Her shares.”
“You can’t take her shares.”
“No.”
His smile returned.
“But my father can.”
Claire studied him.
Grant had always depended on Arthur’s power.
Even while resenting it.
“Your father knows I’m here?”
Grant’s smile faded.
Claire caught it.
“No,” she said.
He stood.
“You’re tired.”
“Arthur doesn’t know.”
“Go to sleep.”
“He doesn’t know about the basement.”
Grant turned.
“Grant.”
He stopped.
Claire’s voice was very quiet.
“You’re afraid of your father.”
Grant spun around.
The expression on his face was so vicious Claire stepped backward.
“Do not confuse patience with fear.”
“But you haven’t told him.”
“Because he doesn’t need details.”
“About the mother of his first grandchild?”
Grant walked toward her.
Claire held her ground.
“He wanted a grandson.”
“He wanted an heir.”
“She is his heir.”
Grant’s jaw clenched.
Claire saw the truth.
A truth larger than the basement.
Grant was not angry because Arthur would reject a granddaughter.
Grant was afraid Arthur might accept her.
And if Arthur accepted Claire’s daughter as the legitimate next generation of Holloway Meridian, Grant would lose whatever advantage he had been promised.
Claire whispered, “This isn’t about disappointing him.”
Grant did not move.
“It’s about him choosing her over you.”
For several seconds, he looked like he might hit her.
Instead he smiled.
“You should rest.”
He left.
Claire waited.
Then she went to the vent.
Something brushed against the other side of the maintenance panel.
Paper.
She pulled it through.
Rebecca’s handwriting.
PATEL KNOWS SOMETHING IS WRONG.
I NEED THE RECORDING.
CAN YOU GET THE PHONE THROUGH?
Claire looked at the old device.
Four percent.
Then at the narrow maintenance gap.
The whole phone would not fit.
But maybe something inside it would.
Claire removed the back.
The ancient phone had one feature modern devices no longer offered.
A removable memory card.
Tiny.
Black.
Smaller than her fingernail.
Claire stared at it.
Then smiled for the first time since Grant locked the basement door.
She removed the card.
May you like
Wrapped it in a strip torn from the blanket.
And slid it through the wall.
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