Chapter 4: Fresh Flowers, Rotten Roots
Victoria arrived at 8:04.
She was wearing a cream blouse and her hair was down — soft, careful, the version of herself she deployed for hospital visits.
She carried white lilies.
Jonathan had always told her lilies were his mother's favorite.
He understood now that she had filed that detail away like a tool.
"Good morning, sweetheart." She set the flowers on the windowsill and turned to him with a practiced look of tender concern.
"You look a little better today.
Did you sleep?"
"Some," Jonathan said.
She pulled the chair close and sat.
Took his hand in both of hers.
Her fingers were warm.
Her rings caught the morning light.
"Dr.
Hale is stopping by at nine," she said.
"He wants to discuss comfort options.
Making sure you're not in any pain." She squeezed his hand.
"I told him that's the most important thing to me right now.
That you're comfortable."
"That was kind of you," Jonathan said.
She smiled.
It reached her eyes perfectly.
Four years of practice.
"I spoke to the funeral home," she added, her voice dropping to something hushed and sorrowful.
"I know it's difficult to think about.
But I want everything to be handled properly.
I don't want you worrying about any of it."
"Which funeral home?"
A tiny pause.
"Hargrove and Sons.
On Michigan Avenue.
They were very professional."
"When did you call them?"
Another pause.
Shorter this time — she was faster than that.
"Yesterday afternoon.
I wanted to be prepared, Jonathan.
For your sake."
He nodded slowly.
"Of course."
She studied his face.
Something moved behind her eyes — a faint recalibration, almost invisible.
"Is something wrong?" she asked.
"I'm dying," he said.
"Everything feels a little wrong."
She laughed softly, sadly, and patted his hand.
Dr.
Hale arrived at 9:02.
He was a trim man in his late forties with silver at his temples and the unhurried manner of someone who had delivered bad news so many times it had become a kind of fluency.
He nodded at Victoria.
She nodded back.
Jonathan watched the nod.
It lasted one second too long.
"Jonathan." Dr.
Hale opened his chart.
"I wanted to talk through where we are.
Your cardiac markers from yesterday's panel—"
"Before we do that," Jonathan said, "I'd like my wife to wait outside."
Silence.
Victoria's hand tightened on his.
"Jonathan, I should be here for—"
"I'd like to speak to my doctor privately," Jonathan said.
"Please."
Her smile didn't waver.
But her hand released his, and the release was just slightly too fast.
"Of course," she said.
"I'll get some coffee."
She left.
The door clicked shut.
Dr.
Hale looked at Jonathan with an expression that was professionally neutral.
"What's on your mind?"
"Sit down, Doctor."
Hale sat.
"I want to ask you something directly," Jonathan said.
"And I want you to understand, before you answer, that I am recording this conversation."
Hale's pen stopped moving.
"I want to know," Jonathan continued, "whether my diagnosis — the timeline, the prognosis, all of it — reflects your honest medical assessment.
Or whether it reflects something else."
The room was very quiet.
Dr.
Hale set his chart on his knee.
He looked at Jonathan for a long moment.
"Mr.
Mercer—"
"The truth, Doctor.
That's all."
Hale's jaw tightened.
He looked at the door.
Then back at Jonathan.
"She told me you were already terminal," he said finally.
"She said the digoxin was something you'd been self-administering.
That you'd been doing it for years.
That the heart damage was your own doing." His voice was flat, controlled.
"She said if I confirmed the prognosis and kept the timeline short, she would ensure a very generous private donation to the cardiology research fund."
Jonathan said nothing.
"I didn't know she was the one giving it to you," Hale said.
"I want you to understand that.
I believed—"
"You believed what was convenient," Jonathan said quietly.
Hale's mouth closed.
"You're going to write down everything you just told me," Jonathan said.
"In detail.
Dates, amounts, what she said, what you agreed to.
My attorney is in the building.
He'll be here in ten minutes." Jonathan looked at him steadily.
"Or I play this recording for the medical board this afternoon.
Your choice, Doctor."
Dr.
Hale looked at the chart in his lap.
His hands were very still.
The pen moved.
Outside in the hallway, Victoria was standing at the coffee station, stirring a cup she hadn't tasted, watching the door to room 412 through the reflection in the window across from her.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Raymond.
*Is it done yet?*
May you like
She typed back: *Soon.*
She had no idea that the man in that room was not dying on her schedule anymore.
