Part 3
The next morning, Dad looked exactly like the man Abigail wanted everyone to see.
Disheveled.
Vacant.
Weak.
Marcus stood over him while Abigail helped him into a mismatched cardigan.
I knelt to tie Dad’s shoe.
Then tapped twice against his ankle.
Ready.
His foot moved once.
Ready.
At the psychiatric clinic, Abigail carried her thick folder.
I carried mine.
Dr. Leonard greeted us in his office.
Dad sat in the wheelchair staring blankly at a plant.
Marcus positioned himself near the door.
“It has become unbearable,” Abigail told the psychiatrist.
She squeezed my hand.
“He wanders. He doesn’t recognize people. And lately, he’s become violent.”
Dr. Leonard frowned.
“Violent?”
Abigail opened her tablet.
“I installed cameras because I became frightened.”
She started a video.
The footage appeared to show Dad inside our kitchen.
He grabbed a chef’s knife.
Then lunged toward the front door.
Dr. Leonard leaned forward.
“This is concerning.”
“Marcus had to restrain him,” Abigail whispered.
I watched the footage.
Then I reached for the tablet.
“Doctor, could you pause that?”
Dr. Leonard nodded.
I froze the frame.
“Abigail says this came from our security system.”
“Yes.”
I looked at Dr. Leonard.
“It didn’t.”
Abigail’s fingers tightened around the chair.
“Sam.”
I zoomed in.
“The file metadata doesn’t match our camera system’s native export format.”
Dr. Leonard looked at me.
I continued.
“The encoding profile is different. The creation date doesn’t match the claimed recording date, and the file was rendered through editing software before being loaded onto this tablet.”
Abigail stood abruptly.
“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“I used to investigate financial fraud,” I said. “Metadata was part of my job.”
Then I reached into my messenger bag.
“But the video isn’t the real problem.”
I placed the manila folder on Dr. Leonard’s desk.
Abigail stared at it.
Her face changed.
Dr. Leonard opened the folder.
The first page was Dad’s financial transfer request.
The second was the proposed power of attorney.
Then came the forged DNR.
The deleted security logs.
Copies of medication records.
Photographs I’d taken of the bruising on Dad’s wrists and arms.
Dr. Leonard’s expression hardened with every page.
“What is this?”
“The reason she needs you to diagnose my father today.”
Abigail stepped backward.
“Sam, you’re confused.”
“No.”
I looked toward Dad.
“I’m finally not.”
Marcus moved.
Fast.
He reached toward Dad.
But my father stood.
Not slowly.
Not uncertainly.
He simply stood up.
Dr. Leonard froze.
Abigail went white.
Dad straightened his cardigan.
His voice, when it came, was calm and perfectly clear.
“My name is Arthur Hayes. I am seventy years old. I retired from the Federal Bureau of Investigation after thirty years of service.”
He looked directly at the psychiatrist.
“I know exactly where I am.”
Then he raised his bruised wrists.
“And I know exactly who did this.”
Marcus stopped moving.
Dad pointed toward him.
“That man.”
Then toward Abigail.
“And she paid him.”
Abigail stared at him.
“You…”
Dad looked at her.
“You should have checked whether I was swallowing the pills.”
Silence.
“I wasn’t.”
