Chapter 3 - The Woman Behind the Wheelchair|
The following morning, Vincent asked his private physician to come to the mansion before breakfast.
Dr. Elaine Porter arrived at eight carrying a leather case and the expression of someone who had expected this appointment to be canceled.
“You’re early,” she said.
“I’m tired of wasting time.”
“Then I suggest you stop canceling physical therapy.”
Vincent looked toward the windows.
“I called you to discuss my recovery.”
“Your recovery is physical therapy, medical management, and patience. It is not a secret procedure I’ve been hiding from you.”
“I want to know whether I’ll ever walk again.”
Dr. Porter sat across from him.
“I can’t promise that. Your injury is severe. Some nerve function remains, but the damage is extensive. We need to work with what you have instead of treating every session as a verdict on your future.”
Vincent’s mouth tightened.
“So I’m supposed to celebrate moving one toe?”
“No. You’re supposed to understand that progress is not an insult simply because it is small.”
He hated the way she said it.
Not because she was wrong.
Because she sounded like Nora.
“Is there another specialist?” he asked.
“There are specialists. There are programs. There are treatment options worth discussing. But no ethical doctor can promise you’ll stand again.”
Vincent looked down at his legs.
For eight months, he had avoided mirrors that showed his entire body. He could tolerate his reflection from the waist up. The rest felt like evidence from a crime scene.
Dr. Porter closed her case.
“Your therapy team has offered to restart daily sessions. Will you attend?”
“Yes.”
She blinked.
“Today?”
“Today.”
“Then I’ll tell them to expect you.”
When she left, Vincent remained by the window, unsettled by the strange emptiness that followed a decision he had spent months avoiding.
Nora arrived with coffee.
“Doctor?”
“Gone.”
“Did she say anything useful?”
“She said I need therapy.”
Nora set the cup on his desk.
“Revolutionary.”
“I’m beginning to understand why my staff finds you difficult.”
“Your staff finds me difficult because I ask them to put cleaning products back where they belong.”
“You also speak to me as if I’m an ordinary man.”
“You are an ordinary man in several very inconvenient ways.”
Vincent stared at her.
She took one look at his face and added, “You’re also an extraordinary pain in the neck.”
He almost laughed.
Almost.
Then she noticed the message on his phone.
“Something wrong?”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
“Good. I was worried I’d have to care.”
She picked up the empty coffee tray and turned away.
“Nora.”
She stopped.
“Why do you know so much about rehabilitation?”
Her expression changed, and for the first time he saw something she usually kept hidden beneath her practical humor.
“My brother, Daniel, was twenty-six when a construction platform collapsed. He fell two stories. His spinal cord was damaged, and the contractor’s insurance company spent months arguing that his injuries were partly his fault.”
“Was it?”
“No. But he was young, poor, and unable to work. They assumed he’d accept whatever they offered.”
“What happened?”
“I learned to read their paperwork. I learned which questions to ask. Eventually, they paid for more treatment.”
Vincent studied her.
“You handled it yourself?”
“With help from a legal aid clinic. I didn’t do it alone.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you hired me to clean your house, not admire your personal tragedies.”
The answer silenced him.
Nora placed the tray down again.
“Daniel’s therapist once told him that a person can lose function without losing every possibility. He said the real danger is when people stop trying because they’re afraid of finding out what’s left.”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed.
“Your brother said that?”
“No. His therapist. Daniel called him an inspirational idiot for a week.”
This time Vincent did laugh, briefly and unexpectedly.
Nora smiled.
Then the moment passed.
At eleven, Vincent attended physical therapy.
The first session was humiliating. The equipment was unfamiliar, his muscles shook, and the therapist had to guide him through movements he once considered beneath his notice. By the end, his shirt clung to his back, and anger burned behind his eyes.
“I’m done,” he snapped.
The therapist stopped immediately.
Nora, waiting near the door, didn’t intervene.
Vincent wheeled himself toward the exit.
“You’re leaving early?” she asked.
“Say one word and I’ll have you transferred to the basement.”
“That’s dramatic. The basement has terrible lighting.”
He glared at her.
She didn’t smile this time.
“Did you hurt yourself?”
“No.”
“Then are you stopping because your body needs a break, or because someone saw you struggle?”
Vincent’s hands tightened around the wheels.
The therapist pretended to organize a clipboard.
Nobody spoke.
At last, Vincent turned around.
“Ten more minutes.”
The therapist nodded.
They resumed.
Later, when Vincent returned to his bedroom, he found an envelope beneath his office door. No name. No return address.
Inside was a photograph taken outside the restaurant on the night of the shooting.
Vincent’s car was visible near the curb.
So was Marcus.
Standing beside a man Vincent had believed was dead.
At the bottom, someone had written six words:
Ask your underboss who ordered the ambush.
Vincent stared at the photograph until the paper bent beneath his fingers.
Then he called Nora.
When she entered, he held it up.
“Do you recognize this man?”
She looked at the photograph.
The color drained from her face.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Vincent leaned forward.
“Who is he?”
May you like
Nora swallowed.
“He was the man who came to the rehabilitation center asking questions about my brother.”
