The Missing Page
Chapter 03 - The Missing Page
Dr. Harold Madsen had retired nine years earlier and vanished so thoroughly that even Sebastian’s people had to work for it.
That alone made Clare suspicious.
Doctors retired. They moved to Arizona, took up sailing, developed strong opinions about golf courses, or appeared on hospital boards with photographs taken beside donors. They did not sell a Lincoln Park townhouse through a trust, close three bank accounts, and begin receiving mail at a farm in Vermont under a post office box registered to their sister’s maiden name.
At least, not if all they had done was medicine.
Clare said this aloud after Gabriel summarized what he had found.
Sebastian looked at her from beside the therapy table. “You are very judgmental for someone who bills in fifteen-minute increments.”
“I bill in compassion and joint mobilization. The fifteen minutes are between me and insurance.”
“You’re making jokes because you are nervous.”
“I’m making jokes because your house has four men with guns outside a room where I’m trying to test sensation.”
Sebastian glanced toward the door.
“Three.”
“That is not the comfort you think it is.”
For three evenings, Clare had returned to the mansion after seeing patients at the clinic and putting Oliver to bed. Each time, she told herself it was temporary. A job. A dangerous job, but a job.
Each time, Sebastian made that harder.
Not because he was charming. He was not.
He was sharp, impatient, suspicious, and allergic to gratitude. He corrected how Gabriel positioned the wheelchair, how his cook prepared fish, how Clare placed towels on the therapy table.
Then Oliver’s machine malfunctioned at midnight on the second night, and when Clare arrived the following evening with red eyes and apology in her throat, Sebastian had said only, “Your left shoulder is higher when you’re exhausted.”
She told him that was none of his business.
He had nodded and called a biomedical equipment company anyway.
The new filtration unit arrived in her apartment before dinner, billed to an anonymous charitable fund.
Clare knew it was him.
She did not thank him.
He did not ask her to.
That was worse.
On the fourth evening, Gabriel placed a folder on Sebastian’s lap.
“Madsen’s original clinic is gone. His assistant is dead. But the hospital archive has a sealed duplicate.”
“Get it.”
“I tried.”
Sebastian lifted his eyes.
Gabriel continued. “It requires authorization from the physician of record.”
“Madsen.”
“Or the patient.”
Sebastian looked at the folder as if it had insulted him.
“I signed every release twenty years ago.”
“Not this one.”
Clare dried her hands slowly.
“What kind of report requires a separate authorization?”
Gabriel answered. “A legal addendum attached after a dispute.”
“What dispute?”
Sebastian’s chair was angled toward the window. For a long moment, he watched the city lights on the lake.
“The night I was shot,” he said, “my father chose Madsen because he was discreet. The family did not want police, reporters, or rivals knowing where I was.”
“Your father was alive then?” Clare asked.
“Yes.”
“Where is he now?”
“Dead.”
The word closed a door.
Clare recognized the sound. Her own life had rooms like that.
Gabriel’s phone buzzed. He glanced down and frowned.
Sebastian noticed. “What?”
“We have company.”
A woman entered before anyone invited her.
She was in her late forties, elegant in a cream wool coat, dark hair cut just below her chin, diamonds small enough to suggest money older than display. She looked at Clare as if noting a misplaced object.
“Sebastian,” she said. “You did not answer my calls.”
“I was busy.”
“With this?”
Clare folded the towel in her hands because it was better than speaking.
The woman approached the therapy table and glanced at the open records.
“You promised me no more specialists.”
“I did not promise obedience, Valentina.”
Clare’s attention flicked to Gabriel.
He gave nothing away.
Valentina Lombardi looked at Clare. “And you are?”
“The physical therapist.”
“Temporary?”
“Licensed.”
Sebastian’s eyes shifted toward Clare. For a second, amusement touched them.
Valentina saw it.
Her smile did not change, but it sharpened.
“My cousin has suffered enough at the hands of people who profit from hope.”
Clare met her gaze. “Then he should avoid anyone who sells certainty.”
Gabriel looked at the floor.
Sebastian did not bother hiding the curve at one corner of his mouth.
Valentina’s hand closed around the back of a chair.
“I manage this household’s medical decisions.”
“No,” Sebastian said.
She turned slowly.
“I did after the shooting. Your father asked me to.”
“My father has been dead for fourteen years.”
“And I have kept you alive for fourteen years.”
The sentence landed too hard.
Even she heard it.
Sebastian became perfectly still.
“What does that mean?”
Valentina blinked.
“It means you are careless when you are in pain.”
“No.” His voice was quiet now. “You said it like I should thank you for remaining exactly where you placed me.”
Color rose in her cheeks.
Clare stepped back. This was no longer her conversation.
Valentina reached for the folder.
Gabriel moved first.
“Don’t.”
The room froze.
Valentina stared at him.
“You forget yourself.”
Gabriel’s voice remained calm. “No, ma’am. I’m remembering too much.”
Sebastian turned toward him.
“What did you say?”
Gabriel looked at the folder, then at Clare, then finally at Sebastian.
“I was outside the operating room when Madsen argued with your father.”
Sebastian’s face went blank.
“You told me you were at the garage.”
“I lied.”
Valentina whispered, “Gabriel.”
He did not look at her.
“Madsen said the injury might not be complete. He wanted a second procedure after the swelling went down.”
Clare felt the room tilt.
Sebastian’s voice was almost nothing.
“And my father?”
May you like
Gabriel swallowed.
“He said a son in a chair was easier to keep alive than a son who would stand up and go back to war.”
