Chapter 4 - My Father’s Last Appointment
I left the hospital under police protection on the fourth day.
Not home.
Home belonged to evidence technicians now.
Instead, Evelyn arranged a secured guesthouse owned by one of my father’s trusts.
It overlooked the ocean north of La Jolla.
I had visited it once as a child.
Now every window felt like something someone could see through.
Maya assigned a patrol officer outside.
Barnaby visited daily.
Elias said the dog had become “professionally interested” in me.
I let him sleep beside the sofa.
On my first night there, Dr. Malcolm Voss came with his attorney.
He was sixty-three, silver-haired, exhausted, and nothing like the villain I had imagined.
“I owe you an apology,” he said.
“For signing my death certificate?”
“I did not sign it.”
“For not stopping what happened.”
He sat across from me.
“My niece began stealing from my clinic years ago.”
“Pamela?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Access. Records. Prescription systems. Insurance identities.”
Maya interrupted.
“Stay with what you personally know.”
Voss nodded.
He explained that Pamela had worked at the clinic part-time during college. Later, she maintained administrative access through a consulting arrangement. Six months earlier, he discovered records viewed under her credentials despite her no longer working there.
“What records?” I asked.
“Yours.”
I went cold.
“I was never your patient.”
“No.”
“Then why did you have records?”
“Your father brought copies.”
The room became silent.
Voss continued.
“Arthur came to me because he believed someone was altering his medications. He also brought blood work and insurance documents involving you.”
“Me?”
“He was afraid Christopher was obtaining medical information under false pretenses.”
Maya asked, “Did Arthur name Christopher?”
“Yes.”
I stared out at the ocean.
My father had known.
“How long before he died?”
“Six weeks.”
“What did you tell him?”
“To go to law enforcement.”
“Did he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“He asked me not to until he could secure his estate records.”
Anger flashed through me.
“You agreed?”
“I gave him forty-eight hours.”
“He died before then.”
Voss looked sick.
“Yes.”
I stood.
“You let my father walk out.”
Maya stepped forward.
“Samantha.”
“No.”
I turned on Voss.
“You knew somebody might be poisoning him.”
“I knew he feared medication tampering. Those are not the same thing.”
“He died.”
“Yes.”
“And you said nothing.”
“I did say something.”
He reached into his attorney’s folder.
“I sent a letter to the county medical examiner asking for a toxicology review.”
“What happened?”
“The request was withdrawn.”
“By who?”
“Arthur’s next of kin.”
My stomach dropped.
I was his next of kin.
“I did not withdraw anything.”
Voss looked at Maya.
Maya’s expression hardened.
“Who signed it?”
Voss answered.
“Christopher Hale, identifying himself as Arthur’s son-in-law and Samantha’s authorized representative.”
I laughed in disbelief.
“He had no authority.”
“I know.”
The withdrawal form bore a notarized authorization supposedly signed by me.
Another forged signature.
I sat down.
My father’s death certificate listed natural cardiac arrest.
His body had been cremated.
Christopher had urged it.
Dad wanted simplicity, he told me.
No mausoleum.
No prolonged ceremony.
I had believed him.
“Can we prove anything now?” I asked.
Maya was careful.
“Maybe through records, preserved blood samples, pharmacy logs, electronic access. Maybe not.”
Voss opened another folder.
“Arthur gave me something before he died.”
A ledger.
Handwritten.
Dates, medication bottle numbers, dosage changes, names of pharmacies, and notes.
My father had been documenting everything.
On one page he wrote:
CHRISTOPHER PICKED UP REFILL WITHOUT ASKING.
Another:
PAMELA ASKED WHETHER SAMANTHA STILL HAS POWER OF ATTORNEY. WHY?
Then:
IF I AM WRONG, I WILL APOLOGIZE TO BOTH OF THEM. IF I AM RIGHT, SAMANTHA MUST GET AWAY.
I cried.
Not because I was surprised anymore.
Because my father had been afraid and alone.
The last entry was dated two days before his death.
FOUND SECOND MARRIAGE RECORD. P. IS NOT MISTRESS. C. NEVER DIVORCED HER.
Below it:
THEY NEED SAMANTHA’S SIGNATURE BEFORE THEY NEED HER DEAD.
Maya leaned forward.
“What signature?”
Nobody knew.
Until Evelyn arrived with a call from the bank.
Someone had attempted to file a transfer of controlling interest in one of my father’s commercial real-estate partnerships.
The document carried my electronic signature.
Dated the day before my burial.
Beneficiary company: Cross Hale Holdings.
Pamela Cross.
Christopher Hale.
Their names together.
Not hidden anymore.
“They were preparing to merge the inherited assets into their company,” Evelyn said.
“But my trust prevents it.”
“Unless you voluntarily signed before death.”
“I didn’t.”
“They created documents saying you did.”
Maya exhaled.
“That gives us fraud, conspiracy, and a stronger motive.”
I stared at the paper.
“Can you arrest them?”
“Soon.”
“Why not now?”
“Because attempted murder is the largest charge, and I want the drug source, the fake pronouncement process, and direct evidence tying them to what happened.”
I understood.
I hated understanding.
That evening, Christopher posted a memorial photograph of me online.
Pamela commented beneath it.
She was the kindest soul I ever knew.
I read it twice.
Then I asked Maya a question.
“What if we let them think the asset transfer worked?”
Maya frowned.
“What are you proposing?”
“They believe I’m dead.”
“For now.”
“They believe the trust documents are vulnerable.”
“Maybe.”
“Then give them something they think they can still steal.”
Evelyn looked alarmed.
“Samantha.”
I held up my father’s safe-deposit key.
“They buried me for what he left behind.”
I looked at Maya.
“Let’s find out what they are willing to say when they think the dead woman cannot hear them.”
Before Maya left that night, she handed me a photocopy of my father’s final pharmacy receipt.
The pickup signature was not his.
It was Pamela’s.
I recognized the looping P immediately because she had signed birthday cards to me for seventeen years.
I sat at the kitchen counter staring at it.
Evelyn said, “You do not have to decide what this means tonight.”
“I know what it means.”
“No. You know what it proves. Those are different things.”
That distinction saved me from spending the whole night inventing details no evidence could give back.
For once, I let a fact remain a fact.
May you like
Pamela had picked up my father’s medication.
The rest would have to be earned by evidence.
