“That’s my doctor,” I said, the words tasting unreal. “Dr. Andrew Prescott. My family physician.”
There was a beat of silence on the line, then Marcus’s voice hardened. “Your doctor.”
“Yes,” I said, and my throat tightened around panic. “He’s been treating me for five years.”
Marcus exhaled sharply. “Mr. Whitmore, listen carefully. I ran Prescott while I was running your wife. He lost his medical license in Ontario six years ago for insurance fraud. Got it reinstated in BC under questionable circumstances. He’s been investigated for improper prescribing twice.”
The dizziness, the nausea, the heart fluttering—my body suddenly made horrible sense.
“If she’s with him,” I whispered, “she’s trying to kill me.”
“That’s where my mind goes,” Marcus said grimly. “I’m calling police right now.”
“No,” I said, and the word came out too fast.
“Thomas—”
“I need to see,” I interrupted, voice shaking. “I need to know it’s real. I need to hear it.”
Marcus swore softly. “If they’re planning to hurt you, confronting them is dangerous.”
“I’m not confronting anyone,” I said. “Just… one hour. Then you call police. Please.”
A long pause. Then: “One hour. But I’m tracking your phone. If anything goes sideways, I call 911.”
“Okay.”
“And take your granddaughter somewhere safe,” Marcus added. “First.”
Sophie looked up at me, eyes wide.
“I’m taking her to Catherine,” I said.
Twenty minutes later, we were in the parking lot of Vancouver General Hospital. The hospital loomed like a fortress, windows glowing with fluorescent light even in daytime, the air thick with sirens and urgency. Catherine met us outside, still in scrubs, hair pulled back tight, surgical mask hanging loose around her neck.
Her eyes snapped from Sophie’s tear-streaked face to mine.
“What happened?” she demanded.
I kept it short, because the longer it took, the more likely my courage would fracture. “Sophie overheard Margaret saying… something,” I said. “We think she’s planning to hurt me. Marcus Chen confirmed Margaret didn’t fly. She’s at the Fairmont with Dr. Prescott.”
Catherine’s face went white, then red, then impossibly calm in that way surgeons get when they’re about to cut.
“Mom’s been poisoning you,” she said.
I flinched at how quickly she accepted it, then realized Catherine lived in evidence. She didn’t have the luxury of denial.
“Dad,” she said, voice trembling, “you need to go to police right now.”