Chapter 9: The Injunction
Patricia filed on Thursday morning.
By Thursday afternoon, Douglas knew.
I was in the kitchen when his car came into the driveway fast — too fast, the tires loud on the concrete.
The front door opened hard.
I heard him cross the hall and go straight up the stairs.
I followed at a distance.
He was already in Garrett's room when I reached the doorway.
He hadn't knocked.
"What did you do?" His voice was controlled but only just.
Garrett was sitting in his wheelchair by the window.
He looked at his brother calmly.
"I hired an attorney," he said.
"You filed an injunction.
Do you understand what that does to the board review?
To the company?
There are investors watching this, Garrett — people who will pull out the moment they see a legal dispute in the ownership structure—"
"Then they'll pull out," Garrett said.
"This is your company.
Your life's work." Douglas spread his hands.
"I have been managing it for you.
Protecting it while you couldn't."
"You restructured the ownership while I was sedated in a hospital bed."
"You agreed to that restructuring.
You signed—"
"The signature was traced, Douglas."
The room went very quiet.
Douglas's hands dropped.
"A forensic analyst examined both documents," Garrett said.
"The report will be submitted to the court on Friday.
The medical file — the supplemental notes from a Dr.
Farrow, a physician I never met, added six weeks after my accident — that's part of the filing as well."
Douglas looked at me in the doorway.
The warmth was completely gone from his face.
"You," he said.
"She's my caregiver," Garrett said.
"She did her job."
"She went through my house—"
"She delivered a letter to a clinic.
She drove me to an attorney's office.
Everything she did, she did at my request, with my authorization." Garrett's voice didn't rise.
"If you want to be angry at someone, Douglas, be angry at the analyst who found the trace lines.
Be angry at the clinic administrator who processed a direct request from a patient.
Be angry at the fact that you were not as careful as you thought you were."
Douglas looked back at his brother.
"I was protecting you," he said.
"The company needed stability.
You were — you couldn't—"
"I couldn't what?"
A long pause.
"You were not well," Douglas said.
"You still aren't."
"Stand up," Garrett said.
Douglas blinked.
"I'm sorry?"
"I said stand up.
Step back from the door."
Douglas didn't move.
Garrett reached down and locked his wheelchair brakes.
He placed both hands on the armrests.
Slowly, with visible effort, he pushed himself upright.
He stood.
Not steadily — his legs shook and he kept one hand on the chair — but he stood, fully upright, at his full height, looking at his brother across the room.
Douglas went pale.
"I have been getting better for weeks," Garrett said.
"And you knew.
Because Dr.
Ellison told you.
And instead of telling me — instead of telling our mother — you made sure the reports stayed the same."
Douglas said nothing.
"Get out of my room," Garrett said.
Douglas left.
I waited until his footsteps reached the bottom of the stairs.
Then I crossed the room and stood beside Garrett, close enough that he could use my shoulder if his legs gave way.
They didn't.
He stood there for another full minute, breathing.
Then he sat back down.
May you like
"Call Patricia," he said.
"Tell her it's started."
