Chapter 2 - THE MEDICAL RECORDS THAT SOMEONE REWROTE
The ambulance siren echoed through São Paulo's rain-soaked streets as I stared at Dante Montenegro.
His question had been almost impossible to hear over the noise.
But I heard every word.
“Was that the first injection she tried to give me?”
I looked toward the paramedic monitoring him. His blood glucose was being reassessed, treatment was continuing, and the hospital had been notified of the suspected medication-related emergency.
“Mr. Montenegro,” I said carefully, “what makes you think someone has given you injections before?”
Dante's eyes moved toward me.
For the first time since meeting him, I saw something behind his intimidating expression that looked like genuine fear.
“Three weeks,” he whispered. “I've been getting sick for three weeks.”
I leaned closer.
“What kind of symptoms?”
“Dizziness. Sweating. Weakness.” He paused to catch his breath. “Sometimes after dinner. Sometimes when I wake up.”
“Did you tell your doctor?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
Dante stared at the ceiling.
“He said I was exhausted.”
I felt the blood drain from my face.
Exhaustion could explain many things.
It did not explain repeated episodes of severe hypoglycemia in someone without an established reason for them.
“Who manages your medication?” I asked.
“Vanessa.”
My stomach tightened.
“Does she give you anything you haven't seen prescribed?”
He hesitated.
“She says they're vitamin treatments. Sometimes something to help me sleep.”
“Who prescribed them?”
Dante's expression changed.
“I never asked.”
I wanted to say something harsh.
Instead, I reminded myself that this man was my patient, not someone standing trial.
“You need to tell the emergency physician everything you remember,” I said. “Even if it seems unimportant.”
His fingers tightened around the edge of the stretcher.
“Marina.”
“Yes?”
“Don't let Vanessa near my medication.”
“I'll make sure the medical team knows your concerns.”
He closed his eyes.
And for the rest of the ride, he said nothing.
At Hospital Santa Helena, a physician named Dr. Lucas Azevedo took charge of Dante's care.
He was tall, silver-haired, and apparently unimpressed by the famous patient occupying his emergency department.
“Mr. Montenegro,” he said, “your name doesn't change what we need to do tonight.”
Dante managed a faint smile.
“That's refreshing.”
Lucas looked at me.
“You're his nurse?”
“Private nurse. First day.”
“Tell me exactly what you witnessed.”
I gave him the facts.
The sudden deterioration.
The insulin pen in Vanessa's hand.
The critically low glucose reading.
The treatment initiated before transport.
And Dante's report of previous unexplained episodes.
Lucas listened without interruption.
Then he asked about Dante's prescribed medications and possible other causes of hypoglycemia.
“We need to stabilize him, monitor for recurrence, and investigate,” he said. “Do not assume the pen explains everything until we've reviewed the clinical evidence.”
I nodded.
He was right.
A suspicious medication device was important.
But establishing exactly what had been administered, by whom, and when required more than suspicion.
At 11:46 P.M., Rafael arrived.
He wore a black suit and looked as though he hadn't breathed properly since the ambulance left the mansion.
“Is he alive?” he asked.
“He's receiving treatment.”
Rafael closed his eyes.
“Thank God.”
I studied him.
“Where's Vanessa?”
“At the mansion.”
“Did the police come?”
“Yes. They spoke to the guests and some employees.”
“And the insulin pen?”
“Secured. The police were informed.”
I exhaled.
Then Rafael said something that made me uneasy.
“Vanessa told everyone you attacked her.”
I stared.
“What?”
“She says you grabbed a prescribed medication from her hand and interfered with Dante's treatment.”
“But he doesn't have diabetes.”
“I know what you told me.”
His expression tightened.
“She says you misunderstood the situation.”
I looked toward the doors leading to the emergency treatment area.
“Are you telling me she wants me blamed?”
Rafael didn't answer immediately.
Then he said, “I'm telling you that Vanessa's father is Senator Augusto Albuquerque.”
My stomach dropped.
I knew that name.
Almost everyone in Brazil did.
Augusto Albuquerque was an influential politician with extensive business connections and a reputation for rewarding allies.
Rafael lowered his voice.
“And he's already called the hospital.”
At midnight, a woman arrived carrying a leather briefcase.
She introduced herself as Dr. Beatriz Monteiro, an attorney specializing in healthcare and criminal defense matters.
“Mr. Montenegro retained my firm several years ago,” she explained. “Rafael contacted me.”
I folded my arms.
“I'm not accused of anything.”
“Not formally.”
She looked directly at me.
“But someone's already attempting to portray you as an unstable employee who interfered with medical care.”
I swallowed.
“I did my job.”
“Then we'll preserve the records that establish what you did.”
She asked me to write a detailed factual account while my memory was fresh, including the sequence of events and names of witnesses.
I agreed.
Then she asked whether my professional registration was current.
“Yes.”
“Your employment contract?”
“Signed yesterday.”
“Who hired you?”
“Rafael arranged the interviews. Dante approved the appointment.”
Beatriz stopped writing.
“Not Vanessa?”
“No.”
Her expression sharpened.
“Interesting.”
“What?”
She closed her notebook.
“Vanessa personally dismissed Dante's last three private nurses.”
I stared.
“Three?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She complained that they were incompetent.”
My pulse accelerated.
“And nobody questioned it?”
“Until tonight, apparently not enough.”
At two thirteen in the morning, Dante was transferred to a monitored hospital room.
He was awake, pale, and furious.
“Marina.”
I approached.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like somebody ran me over with a truck.”
I almost smiled.
“That may be an improvement.”
His mouth twitched.
Then his expression hardened.
“Where's Vanessa?”
“Not here.”
“Good.”
He looked toward Beatriz.
“I want every medication from that mansion examined.”
She nodded.
“We'll work with your doctors and the authorities.”
“And I want my medical records.”
Dr. Azevedo, standing near the doorway, answered before anyone else.
“You'll receive the appropriate records. But right now, you need rest and monitoring.”
Dante started to argue.
The physician raised an eyebrow.
“Are you planning to intimidate your glucose level into staying normal?”
Despite myself, I laughed.
Dante stared at him.
Then gave a reluctant smile.
“Fine.”
At four in the morning, Beatriz returned from a conversation with hospital administration.
Her face was grave.
“Marina, we found something troubling.”
I stood.
“What?”
“Your employment file contains a note saying you're not permitted to administer medication without Vanessa's approval.”
I frowned.
“That was never in my contract.”
“I know.”
“Who added it?”
“We're trying to determine that.”
A pause.
Then Beatriz continued.
“And there's another problem.”
“What?”
“Someone submitted an updated medication list to the private nursing agency this afternoon.”
My mouth went dry.
“What's on it?”
She handed me a copy.
Under supplemental treatment, a new entry appeared.
Insulin therapy — physician authorized.
I stared.
There was no documented diabetes diagnosis accompanying it.
No prescribing physician identified in the version she showed me.
And the document carried a digital acknowledgment under my name.
I shook my head.
“I never approved this.”
Beatriz's expression hardened.
“Then someone may have used your credentials.”
At that moment, my phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
The message contained a photograph of my younger sister leaving her university dormitory.
May you like
Beneath it were nine words.
YOU SAVED THE WRONG MAN. DON'T SAVE HIM AGAIN.
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