Chapter 5 - The Medicine He Hid
I had spent nineteen days believing the nausea was entirely caused by my illness and recovery.
Some of it probably was.
My doctors had warned me that postoperative nausea, pain, medication effects, and complications could make the early weeks difficult.
But Grant had been in charge of my medications.
He filled the pill organizer.
He collected prescriptions.
He decided when I needed something.
Whenever I asked about the anti-nausea tablets, he said I'd already taken them.
Whenever I asked for the prescription bottles, he said I was too forgetful to handle them.
I had accepted his explanation because I was exhausted.
Now I was sitting in June's kitchen with my medication list spread across the table.
Marisol had helped arrange a review with my treating clinician and pharmacist.
The review identified discrepancies between the prescribed regimen and what I'd reported receiving at home.
It did not prove Grant had caused all my symptoms.
But it raised questions serious enough that the medical team documented them and helped establish a safer medication plan.
June stared at the list.
“He told me you were refusing treatment.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“When I called last week, he said you wouldn't take your medicine.”
“I kept asking him for it.”
My sister pressed her lips together.
I could see how angry she was.
But she didn't make the conversation about her anger.
She took my hand.
“Okay. We know now.”
Later that afternoon, Tessa called with new information.
Marisol's home-health agency had preserved its scheduling records.
Someone identifying himself as Grant had contacted the agency shortly before the kitchen incident.
He requested that my upcoming nursing visits be canceled.
The reason he gave was that I no longer wanted outside care.
I stared at the wall.
“I never said that.”
“The agency didn't complete the cancellation,” Tessa explained. “They had questions about the request and needed to confirm the change.”
I closed my eyes.
If Marisol hadn't forgotten her bag, Grant might have had days without a nurse visiting.
Days when no one checked the dressing.
Days when no one asked me what I wanted.
Tessa continued.
“There was another call.”
“When?”
“The morning after your surgery.”
I swallowed.
“Who called?”
“Grant.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked whether he could receive copies of your medical records and make decisions without your direct involvement.”
I looked toward Lucy's bedroom.
She was at school.
Her pink rabbit sat on the pillow.
“What did they tell him?”
“That medical information and decision-making authority required the appropriate authorization. He was referred to the hospital's established procedures.”
I let out a breath.
“Did he get anything?”
“We're still checking.”
For the first time, I wondered whether Grant had wanted me helpless even before my diagnosis.
He had never liked it when I handled money.
He disliked my career as a graphic designer because it gave me independent income.
He complained when I went out with friends.
After Lucy was born, he convinced me to work fewer hours.
Then fewer.
Eventually, I worked only from home.
When the cancer was diagnosed, he said it was a blessing in disguise.
“Now you can stop worrying about work and let me take care of everything.”
I remembered thinking it was romantic.
What a terrible mistake.
That evening, June brought me my old laptop.
She'd retrieved it from a storage box I had left with her months earlier.
“I thought you might want this.”
I opened it.
The screen flickered.
Then my old desktop appeared.
A photograph of Lucy at the beach.
A folder labeled CLIENT WORK.
Another labeled TAXES.
And a third labeled HOUSE.
I opened HOUSE.
Inside were scanned documents from when my mother died.
She had left me our family's small property in West Chester, Pennsylvania.
It wasn't worth millions.
But it was mine.
I'd inherited it before marrying Grant.
After we bought our current house, we rented the old property to a young couple.
The rent helped pay for Lucy's school activities.
Grant always complained that managing it was too much work.
He wanted to sell.
I refused.
Now I found an email I'd saved from a real estate attorney eighteen months earlier.
Please confirm whether you wish to proceed with the proposed transfer of your separate property.
I frowned.
What transfer?
I opened the attachment.
It was a draft deed.
The proposed recipient was CareBridge Partners LLC.
My heart began pounding.
I scrolled to the final page.
There was a signature line.
My name.
Natalie Brooks.
The signature was not mine.
The date was six months before my cancer diagnosis.
I called Tessa.
She answered immediately.
“What's wrong?”
I looked at the document.
“Grant tried to transfer my mother's house.”
“To whom?”
“CareBridge.”
A long silence followed.
Then Tessa asked, “Do you know whether the deed was recorded?”
“No.”
“We'll verify the property records immediately.”
I stared at the screen.
Grant had wanted that house for years.
Not because managing it was difficult.
Because it was an asset he couldn't easily control.
An hour later, Tessa called back.
The proposed deed had not been recorded.
The attempted transfer appeared to have stalled after the attorney requested direct confirmation from me.
But that wasn't the only discovery.
A lender had received an application for a loan secured by the property.
The applicant claimed to have authority to act for me.
The application included a document purporting to carry my signature.
And the person who submitted it was identified as Grant Brooks.
I pressed a hand over my mouth.
“How much was he trying to borrow?”
Tessa hesitated.
“One hundred and eighty thousand dollars.”
I stared at the wall.
He had tried to borrow against my mother's house.
Without my permission.
Then I remembered the conversation we'd had the night before my surgery.
Grant had brought me soup.
Kissed my forehead.
And said:
“If something happens to you, Natalie, I need to know everything will belong to the right people.”
May you like
I'd thought he meant Lucy.
Now I wasn't sure he'd meant either of us.
