Chapter 2 - What the Bruises Proved
The triage nurse took one look at him and placed him in a private trauma bay. A physician named Dr. Laila Ahmadi arrived within minutes, checking his heart, blood pressure, hydration, and neurological responses while I stood beside the bed trying to keep my hands from shaking.
The results were alarming. Dad was severely dehydrated. His heart rhythm was unstable. A blood panel showed he hadn't received his prescribed cardiovascular medication in several days.
Dr. Ahmadi gently lifted his arms, examining the bruising with a penlight, then turned to me.
"Agent Foster, these marks aren't new," she said quietly. "The color and tissue changes suggest four to seven days old. Consistent with prolonged pressure from narrow plastic restraints — most likely heavy-duty zip ties."
Anger rose through me so fast I felt lightheaded. I kept my voice level. "Photograph everything. Full medical report, with measurements."
I stepped into the hallway and called Wallace. "The hospital has confirmed prolonged restraint injuries," I said the second he picked up. "My father was likely bound with plastic ties and deprived of his medication."
He started to speak. I cut him off.
"You dismissed visible evidence of elder abuse while he sat in your lobby. If that house isn't secured and your report isn't corrected immediately, I will contact Internal Affairs and the county prosecutor before sunrise."
His tone changed instantly. "A sergeant's already there. They're documenting the property now."
I hung up and went back into the trauma bay. The IV fluids had brought a little color back to Dad's face. He reached for my hand.
"Don't take me back there," he whispered. "They locked me in the guest room. Shut off the water. Kept bringing me papers. I couldn't read them — Renee took my glasses."
The words came out slowly, like each one hurt. "How long?" I asked.
"I don't know. Days. Marcus said I had to sign everything or they'd tell people I was losing my mind."
I kissed his forehead and told him he was safe. But my mind had already shifted into investigative mode. This wasn't neglect. It was coercion. They'd isolated him, withheld medication, restrained him, and tried to force his signature.
There would be a paper trail. There always was.
I arranged for two trusted officers to stay outside his hospital room, then drove to the house where I'd grown up.
When I unlocked the front door, the hallway was dark. A figure stepped out from the shadows.
"What are you doing here?"
Marcus stood near the living room entrance, still in his clothes from the station, irritation on his face and panic underneath it.
"This is Dad's property," I said. "I have his key and his permission."
"You have no right to come in and start searching," he snapped. "Renee and I are managing his affairs. His mind is gone."
"I'm preserving evidence. Interfere with me and I'll have you removed for obstruction."
The house smelled stale. Fast-food wrappers covered the kitchen counter. Empty medicine bottles sat by the sink — none matching my father's current prescriptions.
I opened the trash bin and pulled out the full liner. Marcus watched from the doorway. "You're digging through garbage now?"
I ignored him. Near the bottom, beneath coffee grounds and food containers, I found strips of shredded paper. I spread them across the kitchen island and started fitting them together.
Twenty minutes later, the fragments formed part of my father's original will. Torn straight through the signature lines and the sections naming beneficiaries. My name had been cut apart.
Beneath the shredded will, another document — a General Power of Attorney. The signature looked wrong immediately. My father's handwriting had always been smooth and precise. This was jagged, unsteady.
I checked the notary information through a secure state database. The commission had expired three years earlier.
May you like
I sealed the papers in an evidence envelope. Marcus's face had gone pale. "What is that?"
"You already know."
