Chapter 4 - THE MAN WHO SIGNED MY NAME
The signatures were forged.
Not all three.
The first emergency proxy was mine.
I barely remembered signing.
The second carried my handwriting but failed forensic review.
The third was electronic.
Approved using credentials assigned to my executive assistant.
She had resigned two months earlier.
Why?
“Family reasons.”
That was the explanation in HR.
Carmine found her in Milwaukee.
Her name was Nora Ellis.
She agreed to speak only with lawyers present.
Good.
People around me had spent too many years assuming meetings without lawyers were safer.
Nora looked terrified when I entered.
I remained across the table.
“I'm not here to threaten you.”
She gave me a look suggesting my reputation had made that sentence useless.
Fair.
So I left.
My attorney stayed.
Three hours later, we had her statement.
Victor had ordered her to prepare renewals.
Dr. Hale provided letters stating I remained medically incapable of managing high-stress executive functions.
Nora objected.
Victor told her:
“Dominic wants this. He just doesn't want to deal with paperwork.”
The second time, she copied my signature from an older filing.
The third, Victor used her credentials himself.
“Why did she leave?”
Carmine asked.
I read.
Because Victor threatened to tell me she had stolen money if she refused again.
I put down the statement.
“Did she steal?”
“No.”
“Prove that before anyone uses it against her.”
Carmine nodded.
Then:
“There's more.”
Of course.
A shell company named Lakeshore Mobility Consulting had received payments from Carter Holdings.
Consulting purpose:
Executive medical coordination.
Owner:
A trust controlled by Dr. Hale's brother.
Payments authorized by Victor.
More than six hundred thousand dollars.
My stomach turned.
“Bring Hale in?”
Carmine asked.
“No.”
He blinked.
“Report it.”
“To?”
“Medical board.”
“Financial investigators.”
“Counsel.”
“Let him hire an attorney.”
Carmine stared.
“You okay?”
“No.”
He almost smiled.
Old Dominic would have used a locked basement.
New Dominic was discovering paperwork could be more frightening.
That afternoon, physical therapy began.
Dr. Chen had hired a team.
Standing frame.
Electrical stimulation.
Strength work.
Transfers.
My body had six months of disuse to punish me with.
Faith watched the first session.
I hated that.
By minute twelve, sweat covered my shirt.
By minute fifteen, my right quadriceps twitched.
By minute twenty, I wanted everyone dead.
“Enough,” the therapist said.
“No.”
“Dominic.”
“One more.”
Faith spoke from behind me.
“If you injure yourself proving you're not injured, I'm going home.”
I glared.
She raised an eyebrow.
The therapist laughed.
I sat.
Humiliating.
Necessary.
Later, Faith handed me water.
“I hate you.”
“That's consistent.”
Then:
“Your leg moved.”
“Barely.”
“Still moved.”
“Do not turn this into inspiration.”
“I wouldn't dare.”
She smiled.
But that night, alone, I tried moving my right foot again.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
On the tenth attempt—
my big toe moved.
Less than an inch.
I stared.
Then laughed.
Then cried.
Nobody saw.
At least I thought nobody did.
Faith stood silently outside the half-open door.
May you like
She never mentioned it.
That was when I began trusting her.
