Chapter 4 - THE SURGEON WHO DISAPPEARED
My mother had Alzheimer's disease.
She still recognized me most days, although sometimes she called me by my grandmother's name.
She lived at Rosewood Gardens, a residential memory-care facility forty minutes outside Chicago.
Every Sunday, I visited with flowers and her favorite lemon cookies.
She always asked whether I had eaten.
Even on days when she couldn't remember what year it was, she remembered that mothers were supposed to worry.
Now someone had photographed her through a window.
I called Rosewood immediately.
The receptionist assured me she was safe.
Then I contacted the police and provided the threat.
Rebecca helped me notify the care home's management and request appropriate precautions without disrupting my mother's routine.
By evening, I was sitting beside her.
She wore a pale pink cardigan and held a photograph of my father.
He had died when I was nineteen.
“Claire, sweetheart,” she said.
I smiled.
“Hi, Mom.”
She touched my cheek.
“You look tired.”
“Long night.”
“You work too hard.”
I laughed softly.
“You always say that.”
She studied me.
Then asked, “Did someone frighten you?”
My throat tightened.
I looked at her.
For one clear moment, her eyes seemed exactly as they had when I was a child.
“Yes,” I whispered.
She reached for my hand.
“Then don't let him decide who you become.”
I began crying.
She didn't ask why.
She simply held my hand.
The following morning, Gabriel's physician, Dr. Miriam Walsh, contacted my agency to clarify the clinical handover I'd provided.
With the hospital's authorization and the patient's consent, I answered questions about the incision, fever, medication records, and the unusual restrictions imposed at the penthouse.
Dr. Walsh was a neurosurgeon in her early fifties.
Calm.
Direct.
Unimpressed by the Moretti name.
“Your observation was important,” she told me.
“The unexplained incision?”
“Yes. We found an infection centered near that surgical site. It had extended into the spinal canal and was compressing neural structures.”
I swallowed.
“Will he walk?”
“It's too early to know. The team has treated the compression, but recovery depends on several factors.”
I nodded.
Then asked, “Did you identify what was done during the second procedure?”
“We're reviewing the available records. A patient-safety investigation is also underway.”
“Does the chart mention Dr. Adrian Vale?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
I looked down.
“He supposedly performed the procedure.”
“That's what the documentation states.”
“Have you spoken to him?”
Another pause.
“No one has been able to locate him.”
Adrian Vale was forty-seven.
An orthopedic surgeon with additional experience in complex trauma cases.
He owned a private surgical center in Lake Forest.
For eleven years, he'd treated wealthy patients who valued discretion.
His website showed photographs of immaculate operating rooms and smiling staff.
But when investigators visited the clinic, it was closed.
The electronic records server had been disconnected.
Adrian's car remained in the underground garage.
His phone was switched off.
And according to an employee, he had not been seen since the night Gabriel developed his fever.
I sat across from Rebecca when she told me.
“Do you think Vincent killed him?”
“We don't know anything of the sort.”
“Then why disappear?”
Rebecca studied me.
“Maybe he's hiding. Maybe somebody threatened him. Maybe he's another victim.”
I looked away.
For the first time, I realized the second scar might not be the only secret somebody had tried to bury.
That evening, Luca called.
“Gabriel wants to speak with you.”
I hesitated.
“I'm not his assigned nurse anymore.”
“He knows.”
“Then why?”
Luca went quiet.
“Because he remembers what he said before they took him to surgery.”
I swallowed.
“Vincent?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
Then Luca added, “And because he says there's something he never told anyone about the night he was shot.”
I closed my eyes.
Outside, rain struck the window.
I thought of the scar.
The forged medical authorization.
The threatening photograph of my mother.
Then I said, “Arrange the conversation through his medical team.”
Luca exhaled.
“Thank you.”
I looked toward the photograph of my father on my desk.
I had spent most of my career trying to keep dangerous situations from becoming worse.
May you like
Now I was beginning to understand that somebody had placed me in the center of one.
And I needed to know why.
