Chapter 5 - What Dr. Hartley Understood
The letter took Warren twenty minutes to write out by hand. He insisted on doing it himself. His grip shook and the lines drifted downhill across the page, but the wording was exact — a formal request for his complete medical records, addressed to the clinic administrator, signed and dated. He folded it himself and handed it over without a word.
I drove to the clinic the next morning, during the window when Trevor usually took his calls in the study. I told Colleen I needed to pick up a prescription refill. She didn't look up from her phone.
The clinic administrator was a woman named Maureen, somewhere in her fifties, reading glasses on a chain, the worn-down patience of someone who's handled a lot of difficult families. She took the letter, read it, and looked at me over the rims.
"You're the caregiver?"
"Yes. Mr. Prescott asked me to bring this in personally."
"He couldn't call?"
"His calls are managed by his brother at the house. He felt a written request was safer."
Maureen read it again. Something shifted in her face — small, careful. "I'll process this today. The records go directly to Mr. Prescott. Not to a representative."
"That's exactly what he's asking for."
She nodded once. "Tell him three to five business days."
I thanked her and left.
When I got back, Trevor was standing in the front hall.
"Prescription sorted?"
"All done."
He held my eyes a beat too long. "Colleen said you took the car."
"I did. I hope that's alright. I didn't know the bus routes yet."
"Sure." He smiled. "Just tell one of us next time. In case we need it."
I said I would, and I went upstairs.
That evening Marilyn knocked on my door. She stood in the hall with her hands folded, looking at the floor, then at me. "May I come in?"
I stepped aside. She sat in the chair by the window and was quiet for a moment.
"I heard you went out today."
"A quick errand."
"Trevor brought it up at dinner." A pause. "Trevor brings most things up."
I waited.
"I want to ask you something," she said. "And I need you to answer me straight. Not the way you'd answer Trevor."
"Alright."
"Is my son getting better?"
The question hung there. I thought about what Warren had asked me — stay neutral, say nothing, give nobody a reason to look twice. Then I looked at Marilyn's hands, knotted together in her lap, knuckles white.
"I think he has more strength than his current reports say he does," I said carefully.
Her eyes filled. She didn't speak for a long moment. "They told me the damage was permanent," she said. "Dr. Hartley told me that in a room in this city, with Trevor sitting right next to me. I believed him. I had no reason not to."
"Marilyn—"
"He's my son." Her voice cracked on the word. "He's my firstborn, and I sat in that room and I believed every word."
I crossed the room and sat down across from her. "He's working on it," I said quietly. "He hasn't given up."
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "What are they doing to him?" she whispered.
Before I could answer, footsteps came down the hall. We both froze. The steps slowed — paused outside the door — then moved on.
May you like
Marilyn looked at the door. Then at me. "Be careful," she said, very low. "Trevor watches everything."
She stood, smoothed her skirt, and left without another word. I locked my door and sat in the dark a long time.
