Chapter 3 - THE NURSE WHO REFUSED A MILLION DOLLARS
At eight the following morning, I learned three things.
Gabriel Moretti had survived surgery.
The infection had spread into tissue surrounding his lower spine, creating an abscess that required urgent drainage and treatment.
And Vincent Moretti wanted to give me one million dollars.
The third discovery arrived by way of a man wearing a blue suit worth more than my car.
He appeared outside my apartment carrying a leather briefcase.
“Miss Bennett?”
I had slept for ninety minutes.
My hair was still damp from the shower.
And I had absolutely no patience left.
“Who are you?”
“Michael Arlen. Attorney for the Moretti family.”
I folded my arms.
“What do you want?”
He smiled.
“May I come in?”
“No.”
His smile faltered.
“This concerns your employment at the penthouse.”
“Then contact my agency.”
He opened the briefcase.
Inside was a document.
A confidentiality agreement.
Attached was a proposed payment authorization.
$1,000,000.
I stared at it.
“What's this?”
“A settlement.”
“For what?”
He cleared his throat.
“Your discretion regarding certain medical observations.”
I looked at him.
“You mean the second incision.”
He didn't answer.
I laughed.
A short, disbelieving sound.
“Mr. Arlen, I have no intention of discussing a patient's confidential medical information with the public. That's already part of my professional obligations. But I won't sign an agreement that prevents me from making required reports or cooperating with a lawful investigation.”
His expression hardened.
“You should consider the offer carefully.”
I stepped backward.
“Goodbye.”
“Miss Bennett—”
I closed the door.
Then called my attorney.
Her name was Rebecca Shaw.
She had been my closest friend since nursing school.
Unlike me, Rebecca became a lawyer because she enjoyed arguing professionally.
When I explained the visit, she went quiet.
“Claire, do you still have the document?”
“Yes. He left a copy.”
“Don't sign anything.”
“I wasn't planning to.”
“And don't meet another representative alone.”
I sat on my couch.
“Rebecca, somebody might have deliberately injured a patient. His family is offering me money to stay quiet.”
“I understand.”
My throat tightened.
“He could have died.”
She was silent.
Then said gently, “You did the right thing getting him emergency care.”
I closed my eyes.
For six years, I'd worked in intensive care and high-acuity home nursing.
I'd seen strokes.
Severe infections.
Families making impossible decisions.
But I'd never seen an attorney offer me a million dollars because I noticed a scar.
At noon, Luca called.
“Mr. Moretti is awake.”
I sat upright.
“How is he?”
“Stable. Receiving treatment. The doctors aren't making promises about his legs yet.”
I exhaled.
That was more encouraging than I'd feared.
Luca hesitated.
“He's asking for you.”
I looked toward my wrist.
The bruises were darker now.
“Did you tell him what happened?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Luca swallowed.
“He said to apologize.”
I looked down.
“That's not necessary right now. He's recovering.”
“He insisted.”
I was silent.
Then Luca continued.
“He also wants to know whether somebody contacted you.”
My stomach tightened.
“An attorney.”
“What attorney?”
“Michael Arlen.”
Luca cursed.
I had never heard a man sound so frightened while whispering.
“Claire, Arlen doesn't represent Gabriel personally.”
I sat very still.
“Then who does he represent?”
A pause.
“Vincent.”
Two hours later, Rebecca called with another discovery.
Michael Arlen had filed documents on behalf of a corporation seeking temporary authority over several Moretti business accounts.
The filing referred to Gabriel's medical incapacity.
And attached was a letter supposedly signed by Gabriel authorizing Vincent to make decisions during his recovery.
Rebecca had obtained the public portions of the relevant records.
She couldn't tell whether the authorization was genuine.
But its timing was suspicious.
The document was dated the morning after Gabriel supposedly underwent surgery to remove the bullet fragment.
The morning he lost movement in his legs.
I looked toward the window.
Chicago traffic moved through the afternoon sunlight.
Somewhere in the city, a man was recovering from an infection that might have killed him.
And his cousin was trying to take control of his fortune.
Then my phone vibrated.
A message from an unfamiliar number.
CLAIRE BENNETT, STOP ASKING QUESTIONS. YOUR MOTHER'S CARE HOME IS EASY TO FIND.
Attached was a photograph of my mother sitting beside a window.
May you like
I stopped breathing.
Because nobody outside my closest friends knew where she lived.
