Chapter 3 - Shadows on the Stairwell
Two days later, the physical pain merged with a rising sense of paranoia. Every creak of the floorboards in my apartment building sounded like footsteps. Every shadow in the hallway made my heart race.
I decided to go back to the office. Work had always been my sanctuary, a place where logic, order, and precise medical protocols governed every action. As CEO of the regional medical center, my days were usually filled with board meetings, budget reviews, and rounds with department heads. But today, my mind struggled to focus on quarterly projections.
In the afternoon, my assistant, Sarah, knocked and stepped into my office, holding a thick manila envelope.
“Dr. Brennan, this was dropped off at the front desk for you by a courier service,” Sarah said, placing it on my desk. “The courier insisted it had to be handed directly to you, but when security went to check the lobby, he had already left.”
“Thank you, Sarah,” I said, adjusting my posture to alleviate the pressure on my spine.
She offered a sympathetic smile and exited, closing the heavy oak door behind her.
I reached out and untied the string on the envelope. Inside were no letters, no legal documents, and no notes. Instead, out slid a stack of glossy, printed photographs.
My breath caught in my throat.
The first photograph showed me walking out of my apartment building yesterday evening, carrying a bag of groceries. The second showed me sitting at my desk through the office window, illuminated by my desk lamp. The third was a close-up of my car parked in the hospital’s subterranean garage, with a red circle digitally drawn around my license plate.
Attached to the back of the last photo was a sticky note scrawled in block letters: Accidents happen when you’re not looking. Drop the claim.
A wave of nausea washed over me. Someone was actively watching me, tracking my movements, and documenting my daily routine. It wasn't just Victoria—she must have hired someone. A private investigator, or worse, someone willing to cross legal lines to terrorize me into submission.
I picked up my desk phone and dialed Mr. Patterson’s direct line.
“Patterson speaking,” his calm, measured voice came through the receiver.
“Mr. Patterson, it’s me. Victoria is escalating,” I said, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to stay composed. “She’s having me stalked. Someone left threatening photographs on my desk at the hospital.”
There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. When Patterson spoke again, his tone had lost its professional detachment and turned grave.
“Did you call the police?”
“Not yet. I just got them.”
“Listen to me, Ms. Brennan,” Patterson said urgently. “Your father anticipated this. Not to this extreme, perhaps, but he knew Victoria’s character better than anyone. That is why he added a secret codicil to his will, lodged exclusively in my private safe, independent of the primary documents we reviewed.”
I sat up straight, ignoring the sharp twinge in my back. “A codicil? What kind of codicil?”
“Your father suspected that Victoria might attempt to coerce, threaten, or unlawfully deprive you of your rightful share,” Patterson explained. “The codicil states that if either beneficiary attempts to commit fraud, intimidation, or physical harm against the other in order to manipulate the estate, the offending party’s share is automatically forfeited in its entirety, reverting solely to the surviving sibling.”
The room seemed to spin slightly. Dad had prepared a safety net. He had known, with a heartbreaking clarity, that his favorite daughter’s greed might eventually cross into criminality.
May you like
“Can we invoke it now?” I asked urgently.
“Not yet,” Patterson warned. “We need concrete, irrefutable proof—police reports, audio recordings, or tangible evidence of coercion. If we move too quickly without ironclad proof, Victoria’s high-priced lawyers will claim it’s a fabrication. Bring those photographs and the note to my office tomorrow morning. We’re going to file a formal injunction, and we’re going to protect you.”
