Chapter 5: The Doctor Who Got Scared
Dr.
Raymond Harmon lived in a narrow townhouse twenty minutes from the hospital where he had practiced for thirty-one years.
He opened the door before Nathaniel knocked — he had been watching from the window.
He was older than Nathaniel had expected.
Late sixties, a careful gray beard, the kind of man who looked like he had spent his whole career being trusted.
He looked like he hadn't slept.
"Come in," he said.
"Please."
The living room was tidy in the way that suggested recent frantic tidying.
A stack of folders sat on the coffee table.
A half-empty glass of water.
A phone face-down beside it.
Nathaniel sat across from him.
"You signed the assessment," Nathaniel said.
"Yes."
"You declared my mother mentally unfit."
Harmon's hands pressed together between his knees.
"I examined her once.
A single session, forty-five minutes.
She was sharp.
Completely sharp.
I knew it during the examination.
I knew it when I signed the document." He stopped.
"I signed it anyway."
"Why?"
Harmon looked at the folders on the table.
He didn't pick them up yet.
"Eight months ago, I made a financial error," he said.
"A significant one.
An investment through a private fund — I won't bore you with the details.
I lost a great deal of money.
More than I could absorb quietly.
My clinic was at risk." He paused.
"A man contacted me.
He said his name was Clifton Voss.
He said he had heard about my situation and wanted to help.
He offered a donation to the clinic — fifty thousand dollars — with no strings attached.
I was desperate.
I accepted."
"And then the strings appeared."
"Three months later.
He called and told me what he needed.
A psychiatric assessment.
An elderly woman, early signs of confusion, family concerned about her capacity to manage her affairs.
He made it sound routine." Harmon's voice thinned.
"He sent me her file.
I read it.
There was nothing in it that supported the conclusion he wanted.
But he reminded me — very calmly — that the donation had been processed as a personal payment to me, not to the clinic.
That if I didn't cooperate, he would report it as undisclosed income.
He had the paperwork ready."
"He trapped you."
"I let myself be trapped." Harmon finally picked up the top folder and held it out.
"This is everything.
The original contact.
The wire transfer records.
The emails.
His instructions for what the assessment needed to say.
I kept copies of all of it."
Nathaniel took the folder.
"Why are you giving me this now?"
Harmon looked at him directly for the first time.
"Because this morning I received another call.
Not from Clifton.
From a woman.
She didn't give her name.
She said that if the conservatorship hearing was challenged, I should remember how much I had to lose.
She said my medical license was fragile at my age." He swallowed.
"Mr.
Crane, I have two grandchildren.
I have a wife who doesn't know any of this.
I have thirty-one years of practice.
And I signed a document I knew was false because I was afraid." His voice broke slightly at the edges.
"I am still afraid.
But I am more afraid of what happens if I stay quiet."
Nathaniel opened the folder.
The first page was an email from a Voss Family Trust account.
The instructions were precise.
The language was clinical and cold.
At the bottom, a single line: *Assessment must support full conservatorship.
No partial findings.
She needs to be completely removed.*
He read it twice.
"The woman who called you this morning," Nathaniel said.
"Describe her voice."
"Controlled.
Educated.
She didn't raise it once."
"Did she say anything else?"
Harmon hesitated.
"She said — and I'm quoting exactly because I wrote it down the moment I hung up — she said, 'The old woman had a fall tonight.
These things happen.
Don't make it worse for yourself by talking.'"
The room went very still.
*A fall.*
Isabella had called it a fall before anyone outside that penthouse knew what had happened on the terrace.
Nathaniel closed the folder.
"Dr.
Harmon, I need you to be willing to repeat everything you've told me to my lawyer and, when the time comes, to the authorities."
The older man nodded slowly.
"That's why I called."
Nathaniel stood.
He tucked the folder under his arm.
"One more question.
Clifton Voss — did he ever mention anyone else?
Any other name connected to this?"
Harmon looked at the table.
"He mentioned a Gerald Fitch.
He said Fitch would handle the legal side once the assessment was filed." He paused.
"And once — only once — he mentioned a third person.
He said she was the one who had identified the target and done the groundwork.
He called her 'our inside person.'" Harmon looked up.
"He said she had been working on this for almost two years."
Two years.
May you like
Isabella had been with Nathaniel for two years.
He was already at the door.
