I Took My Husband’s Phone In For Repair. The Technician, A Family Friend, Pulled Me Aside And Said,

In Laura’s world, we weren’t a couple. We were a file. “We need to call the police right now,” Marian said.

“And tell them what?” I shook my head. “That my husband might be planning something based on scheduled messages and financial transfers that could all have innocent explanations? I need more.

I need proof of what they’re planning. I need to know exactly what his endgame is—and how soon.”

“How will you?” Marian asked. My phone rang.

Robert. I answered, my voice calm. “Hello.”

“Stella, where are you?” His voice was tight with something I couldn’t identify.

“The library. Why?”

“I need you to come home now. We have a visitor.”

“Who?”

A pause.

“Dr. Patterson stopped by. You were too anxious to come into the office.

He agreed to a brief house call to review the cognitive screening he says he has on file.”

The room tilted. I hadn’t had a cognitive assessment. “I haven’t had a cognitive assessment.”

“Yes, you have.

Last month, don’t you remember?” His voice took on that patronizing tone. “Stella, this is exactly what we’re concerned about. Please come home.

Dr. Patterson is waiting.”

He hung up. I stared at the phone.

Marian watched me, fear and sympathy on her face. “He’s fabricating medical records,” I said slowly. “He’s bringing our family doctor into this.

Creating documentation of my supposed decline. He’s building his case right now.”

If I went home, Dr. Patterson would examine me.

Robert would have coached him on what to look for. What to document. He’d create a paper trail.

And once that trail existed, if anything happened to me, no one would question it. Just a tragedy. A woman “confused.” A woman who “forgot.” A woman who “declined.” A woman who “had issues.” A tidy story.

I stood, my legs unsteady. “I’m going to go home,” I said, “and I’m going to take that assessment and I’m going to pass it perfectly. And then… I’m going to find out every detail of their plan and dismantle it piece by piece.”

I picked up my purse and headed for the door.

“Marian, I need you to keep researching. Everything you can find on Laura Hardy. Every case she’s worked, every client she’s had.

Can you do that?”

“Of course,” she said, eyes shining. “But Stella—be careful.”

“I’ve been careful for 66 years,” I said. “It’s time to be something else.”

I drove home through autumn streets, past the harbor where tourists photographed the lighthouse, past the coffee shop where Robert and I used to have Sunday breakfast.

Everything looked the same. Beautiful. Normal.

Everything was a lie. Dr. Patterson’s silver Mercedes sat in our driveway.

I parked beside it and checked my appearance in the rearview mirror. Neat. Composed.

Completely sane. I walked into my house to find my husband and my doctor waiting in the living room. And on the coffee table between them sat a folder labeled:

Cognitive Assessment — Stella Hammond.

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