Chapter 3 - THE MEDICINE IN MY EYES WASN’T WHAT VERNON SAID IT WAS, AND SOMEONE HAD REMOVED THREE PAGES FROM MY HOSPITAL FILE
Vernon arrived Thursday at 8:03 in the morning.
Exactly on time.
He had been exactly on time every Thursday for five years.
That consistency used to comfort me.
Now it sounded like a lock turning.
Hannah had replaced his usual medication bottle with an identical empty vial prepared by Marco’s team.
The real drops were with Dr. Chen’s laboratory.
No one in the house knew.
Vernon entered my bedroom suite carrying his medical case.
“Morning, Grant.”
Same voice.
Same calm rhythm.
Same man who had sat beside my hospital bed while my world ended.
I remained in the leather chair near the windows.
“Morning.”
He set down the case.
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“Headaches?”
“No.”
“Pressure?”
“No.”
“Any unusual sensations in the eyes?”
My pulse changed.
Interesting question.
“Why?”
“Routine.”
“Light flashes?”
He had never asked that before.
“Sometimes.”
Vernon stopped moving.
Only for a second.
“New?”
“No.”
“How long?”
“Years.”
Silence.
Then he laughed softly.
“Post-traumatic neural activity.”
I said nothing.
He approached.
“Let’s have a look.”
I let him examine me.
Light.
Finger pressure.
Surface inspection.
No imaging.
Of course.
Then:
“Everything looks stable.”
I nearly laughed.
Stable.
The most dangerous word in medicine.
He reached into his case.
“I’ll do your drops.”
“No.”
His hand stopped.
“What?”
“Not today.”
“Why?”
“I’m tired of them.”
Vernon sounded amused.
“You’ve been tired of half your medications for years.”
“What are they called?”
Silence.
There.
“Excuse me?”
“The drops.”
“What are they?”
“They’re compounded.”
“That isn’t a name.”
He shifted.
“A combination tailored to your injury.”
“Of what?”
“Anti-inflammatory and ocular-pressure support.”
“Which agents?”
Now he knew.
Something was wrong.
His voice hardened slightly.
“Grant, where is this coming from?”
“I asked a medical question.”
“And I’m answering.”
“No.”
“You’re describing a purpose.”
“What is in the bottle?”
Vernon became quiet.
I heard leather creak as he closed his case.
“Has someone been filling your head with nonsense?”
There.
Not medical.
Defensive.
“Who would do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hannah?”
My body went still.
Why Hannah?
He had barely spoken to her in two years.
“What about Hannah?”
“Your housekeeper used to study ophthalmology.”
So he knew.
She had told me only two days earlier.
“How do you know?”
Another pause.
“I review staff medical questionnaires.”
Lie.
Household medical questionnaires did not include abandoned college programs.
I had approved those forms myself years ago.
Vernon corrected quickly.
“Perhaps she mentioned it.”
“She didn’t.”
Silence.
I stood.
“Sit down, Vernon.”
“Grant—”
“Sit.”
He did.
I heard it.
The small surrender of expensive fabric against a chair.
I remained standing.
“Someone accessed my hospital records yesterday.”
Nothing.
“Using my authorization.”
Vernon exhaled.
“Medical administration makes access requests all the time.”
“Not under my executive code.”
“You don’t understand hospital systems.”
“Probably.”
“Marco does.”
Silence.
Then:
“Was it you?”
“No.”
Too fast?
Maybe.
“Daniel?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
Another answer instead of information.
I reached for my cane.
“Visit is over.”
“Grant.”
“No drops.”
“No examination.”
“No contact with my staff.”
“Until when?”
“Until I understand what you’ve been putting in my eyes.”
His voice changed.
“You are making a dangerous mistake.”
Cold moved through me.
“Dangerous how?”
“You have a serious condition.”
“Which condition?”
“Your post-blast ocular damage.”
“That is not a diagnosis.”
He stood.
“Grant, listen to me.”
“I have.”
“For five years.”
“Now I’m going to listen to someone else.”
Vernon’s breathing changed.
Not fear.
Anger.
Then:
“Who examined you?”
I smiled.
That answer he wanted too much.
“Nobody.”
He laughed once.
“Bullshit.”
There.
The family physician disappeared.
For one second, I heard another man.
“Leave.”
He did.
Marco followed him to the gate.
Twenty minutes later, Daniel called.
I did not answer.
Then again.
Then text:
Vernon says you’ve stopped treatment. Call me.
I forwarded it to Marco.
“Interesting.”
Hannah said from doorway.
“You heard?”
“You have screen reader volume set high.”
“Occupational hazard.”
She came in.
“Lucy wants to know whether you’re angry with the flashlight.”
I turned toward her.
“What?”
“She thinks all the adults became strange after she used it.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
“Tell her the flashlight is innocent.”
“She won’t believe me.”
“Bring her in.”
Lucy entered two minutes later.
Fast little footsteps.
Then she whispered:
“Mr. Grant?”
“Yes?”
“Mommy says I made a medical discovery.”
Hannah sighed.
“I did not phrase it that way.”
Lucy ignored her.
“Am I a doctor?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
A beat.
“Can I have pancakes?”
“Yes.”
“That was easier.”
She ran out.
Hannah laughed.
The sound did something unpleasantly warm to the room.
Then her phone rang.
Dr. Chen.
Hannah answered.
Her expression changed even before she spoke.
“Grant.”
I held out my hand.
She put phone on speaker.
Dr. Chen began:
“The preliminary analysis of the drops is back.”
I stood very still.
“And?”
“They contain an anti-inflammatory component.”
For half a second, relief.
Then:
“But also a second compounded agent that is not standard for long-term management of your condition.”
“What does it do?”
“I want to be careful.”
“Be careful quickly.”
“It can significantly affect pupil function, focusing response, and visual clarity.”
“With repeated use, especially in already damaged eyes, it could make limited residual visual function harder to perceive.”
Silence.
Hannah whispered:
“Could it cause complete blindness?”
“Not by itself.”
Dr. Chen said firmly.
“Your underlying injuries are real.”
“But if Mr. Mercer had faint light or shape perception, this medication could potentially suppress or blur what remained.”
My mouth went dry.
“For five years?”
“I cannot tell you what effect five years of weekly dosing had without more data.”
“Why would a doctor prescribe it?”
“In some contexts, short-term uses may exist.”
“Your context does not make obvious sense to me.”
There.
Not proof of sabotage.
Enough to demand explanation.
Then Dr. Chen continued.
“We obtained part of your archived hospital file through the authorization you signed yesterday.”
My heartbeat changed.
“And?”
“Three pages are missing from the original discharge sequence.”
“What pages?”
“We know from pagination.”
“Pages seventy-one through seventy-three.”
“Content?”
“Unknown.”
“Any references?”
“Yes.”
“Page seventy includes a note stating: ‘Family survivorship update attached.’”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
Hannah moved closer.
Dr. Chen’s voice softened.
“The next three pages are missing.”
“Then page seventy-four resumes with ocular surgery notes.”
Family survivorship update.
Caroline.
Emma.
The room disappeared.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could be routine documentation.”
“Could list casualties.”
“Could list survivors.”
“We need those pages.”
My hand found the desk.
Hannah touched my wrist.
Not gripping.
Just there.
Dr. Chen continued:
“There’s another irregularity.”
Of course.
“The scanned file shows a digital amendment twenty-six days after your discharge.”
“By who?”
“Vernon Hale.”
“What amendment?”
“Your diagnosis was changed from ‘severe bilateral visual impairment with uncertain long-term prognosis’ to ‘permanent complete bilateral blindness.’”
I heard nothing for several seconds.
Not Hannah.
Not Dr. Chen.
Not the room.
Only those words.
Uncertain long-term prognosis.
Then changed.
Permanent complete blindness.
Twenty-six days later.
“Was I re-examined?”
“No corresponding examination is in the file.”
“What reason?”
“None documented.”
I sat.
My knees had stopped cooperating.
Hannah crouched beside me.
“Grant.”
I could barely speak.
“Find the missing pages.”
Dr. Chen answered:
“We are.”
Then Marco entered without knocking.
That alone told me something was wrong.
“Mr. Mercer.”
“What?”
“We found who accessed the records yesterday.”
Hannah stood.
I turned toward him.
“Who?”
“Dr. Hale’s office initiated the request.”
There.
I expected satisfaction.
Fury.
Instead I felt empty.
Then Marco continued:
“But the download authorization came from Daniel Cross’s secure executive token.”
Hannah inhaled.
My oldest friend.
My second-in-command.
The man who told me Emma had been buried.
“Where is Daniel?”
I asked.
Marco hesitated.
“We’re trying to locate him.”
“What do you mean?”
“He didn’t go into Mercer Harbor this morning.”
“His driver says he canceled.”
“Home?”
“Empty.”
The darkness around me seemed to close tighter.
“When did he leave?”
“Security cameras show him leaving his apartment at 5:12 a.m. with two bags.”
Hannah whispered:
“He knows.”
Maybe.
Or coincidence.
I no longer believed in coincidence.
Then Marco said:
“There’s one more thing.”
“What?”
“Daniel accessed an old Mercer Aviation flight account at 5:36.”
“Destination?”
“No flight filed yet.”
“Aircraft?”
“None of ours.”
“Then what account?”
“A charter shell used years ago.”
I knew the name before he said it.
Cross Atlantic Holdings.
A company Daniel and I created when we were twenty-six.
We had not used it in a decade.
Marco continued:
“There was a payment this morning.”
“To a private airfield in Westchester.”
I stood.
“Lock the account.”
“Already done.”
“Get police?”
“On what basis?”
He was right.
Daniel had not been charged.
Leaving New York was not illegal.
Accessing records under authority he once possessed might be questionable but not enough.
I needed evidence.
Then Hannah whispered:
“Grant.”
“What?”
“If Daniel knows you’re asking about the hospital…”
She did not finish.
She didn’t need to.
If Emma was truly dead, Daniel had nothing to fear from three missing pages.
If she was not—
I reached for my cane.
“Marco.”
“Yes?”
“Find the charter.”
“And Grant?”
Hannah’s voice was careful.
“What?”
“You need to go back to Dr. Chen.”
I turned.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because if somebody has spent five years controlling what you could see…”
May you like
Her voice broke.
“…the best thing you can do is start taking your eyes back.”
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