Chapter 4 - The Doctor's Secret
I called Franklin immediately.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Prescott contacted the medical suite.
“He left twenty minutes ago.”
“Find him.”
Marisol remained in my office.
“You knew this?”
“I suspected.”
“You should have told me.”
“Would you have believed a penniless caregiver accusing your children's doctor?”
I couldn't answer.
Prescott returned.
“Yates's car is gone.”
“Freeze every exit.”
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Lawson.”
Crosby Vane laughed softly.
“You finally figured it out.”
“Where is Yates?”
“Probably running.”
“If you touched my children—”
“Careful.”
His voice became amused.
“You're emotional.”
“What did Yates give you?”
“Information.”
“Why?”
“Money.”
I looked toward the twins' room.
“What else?”
Crosby paused.
Then:
“Ask your doctor.”
The call ended.
Prescott stared at me.
“We'll find him.”
Marisol stepped closer.
“Check everything.”
I turned.
“What?”
“Their medication. Every vial. Every dose.”
Within minutes, the medical suite was locked down.
Another physician from Dr. Yates's team, Dr. Hannah Cole, arrived.
She examined everything.
Hours passed.
Finally, she entered my office holding a file.
“There are discrepancies.”
My stomach tightened.
“What kind?”
“Several doses recorded in the charts don't match inventory.”
Marisol whispered, “Oh God.”
“Were they poisoned?” I asked.
Dr. Cole shook her head quickly.
“No evidence of that.”
“Then what?”
“Some supportive medication may have been withheld or improperly recorded.”
“Could that explain their decline?”
“Partially.”
“Partially isn't enough.”
She met my eyes.
“The leukemia is real, Lawson. Their condition is serious. But I'm no longer comfortable with the prediction that they have ten days.”
I stared at her.
“You're saying Yates lied?”
“I'm saying I need time.”
The door opened.
Prescott.
“We found him.”
Dr. Yates was brought into my office twenty minutes later.
He looked terrified.
“Lawson, listen—”
“Did Crosby pay you?”
Silence.
“Franklin.”
“Yes.”
Marisol closed her eyes.
“For information?”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“Nothing.”
I slammed my palm onto the desk.
“What did you do to my children?”
“Nothing!”
Prescott stepped closer.
Yates panicked.
“I never hurt them!”
“Then explain the missing medication.”
“I falsified inventory.”
“Why?”
“I sold some.”
The confession hung in the room.
“You stole medication from dying children?”
“No! The medication I diverted wasn't their chemotherapy.”
“You looked me in the eye and told me they had ten days.”
“I believed it!”
Dr. Cole stepped forward.
“Based on what?”
Yates looked at her.
“Their trajectory.”
“You ignored signs of marrow recovery.”
“I didn't ignore—”
“You didn't repeat the tests.”
He went silent.
I understood.
Crosby had paid him for information.
Yates had stolen medication for money.
And somewhere along the way, my children had become numbers on a chart he stopped questioning.
“Get him out.”
Prescott grabbed his arm.
Yates looked at me.
“Lawson—”
“Pray they recover.”
The door closed.
I stood alone for several seconds.
Then Marisol spoke.
“Go see them.”
“I almost failed them.”
“Then don't waste another minute failing them from this room.”
I looked at her.
Nobody spoke to me that way.
Genevieve had.
Marisol apparently didn't care.
I walked upstairs.
Jonah was awake.
“Dad?”
I sat beside him.
“Yeah?”
“Are we still dying?”
The question hit me squarely.
“I don't know.”
He considered that.
“That's better than yes.”
I laughed despite myself.
Blythe opened her eyes.
“Where's Mari?”
“Right outside.”
“Can she come in?”
I glanced toward the doorway.
Marisol stood there.
“Please?” Blythe whispered.
I nodded.
Marisol entered.
Blythe reached for her.
“Sing the bad song.”
Marisol smiled.
“You're very sick if you're requesting that.”
“Sing.”
So she did.
And while her terrible voice filled the room, Jonah began laughing.
Then Blythe.
Then, somehow, me.
Three days later, Dr. Cole walked into the room holding fresh laboratory results.
Her hands were shaking.
“Lawson.”
I stood.
“What?”
She smiled.
May you like
“Their counts doubled.”
---
