Chapter 3 - The Man in the Videos
I shoved the flash drive into the lining of my slipper and slid the laptop lid down just as Sarah reached the bottom stair.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
I turned in the desk chair.
"Couldn't sleep."
She stood in the doorway in one of my T-shirts, hair loose around her shoulders.
For ten months, that sight had meant home.
Now I watched her hands.
Empty.
"You usually read when you can't sleep," she said.
"I got tired of pretending biographies relax me."
She smiled.
"Come back upstairs."
I yawned on purpose.
"In a minute."
Sarah crossed the room, bent, and kissed the top of my head.
Her fingers rested on my shoulder a second too long.
"Don't stay down here all night."
"I won't."
She walked away.
I waited until the upstairs door closed.
Then I counted to sixty.
I removed the drive from my slipper.
The folders were too dangerous to inspect at home.
At 6:10 the next morning, I told Sarah I had an early conference call and drove to my office before she woke fully.
I locked my door, pulled the blinds, and copied the entire drive to an encrypted laptop.
The first file in MARCUS - INCIDENTS began with me standing in the hallway holding one shoe.
"Where's the other one?" Sarah asked from behind the camera.
I laughed.
"Probably wherever the left half of my brain went."
Her voice became softer.
"You've been forgetting a lot lately."
On screen, I stopped smiling.
"I'm tired."
"Your father had memory issues, didn't he?"
"He was eighty-one."
The video cut.
Next clip.
I dropped a water glass in the kitchen.
Sarah gasped theatrically.
"Marcus!"
"It's a glass."
"You didn't even see it."
"Because I'm a clumsy idiot before coffee."
Another cut.
Another date.
I sat at the kitchen island staring at my phone.
Sarah asked, "What's Lily's school password?"
"Greenbird... no. Green... something."
"You changed it yesterday."
"Then why are you asking me?"
"I'm worried."
My recorded face tightened.
"Stop filming me."
The clip ended there.
I opened file properties.
Several had been edited.
The original creation times did not match the export times.
More important, the footage started late.
Seventeen minutes late on the worst clips.
I wrote the number on a legal pad.
17.
Then I opened LILY - EPISODES.
The first video showed Lily seated cross-legged on her bedroom carpet.
Her pupils looked heavy.
Sarah sat opposite her.
"Did Daddy scare you last night?"
"No."
"Did he yell?"
Lily rubbed her face.
"You yelled."
Sarah paused.
"Sweetheart, remember what we practiced."
My chair scraped backward.
I stood without meaning to.
The next clip was worse.
Lily cried because Sarah had hidden her stuffed rabbit and kept asking where Daddy had put it.
Then Sarah turned the camera on.
"Tell me why you're upset."
"I want Bunny."
"Because Daddy took Bunny?"
"No."
"It's okay to tell the truth."
Lily started sobbing harder.
The video ended.
I had to walk to the sink in my office bathroom and splash cold water over my face.
When I looked up, my reflection seemed older than it had yesterday.
I returned to the desk and opened FINAL EVALUATION - JANUARY 14.
A PDF appeared.
CONFIDENTIAL COGNITIVE CAPACITY ASSESSMENT REQUEST.
Patient: Marcus Vance.
Applicant: Sarah Vance, spouse.
I scrolled.
The language was polished and clinical.
Increasing forgetfulness.
Periods of confusion.
Emotional volatility.
Possible medication misuse.
Safety concerns regarding minor child.
My skin tightened around my ribs.
Then I saw my electronic signature.
It looked right.
Exactly right.
I had never signed the form.
I checked metadata.
The PDF had been created from a document template associated with Hale & Mercer Property Law.
The name meant nothing to me.
I copied it down anyway.
My phone vibrated.
SARAH: Lily asking when you're coming home. She had another rough morning at Evelyn's.
I typed nothing.
Another file on the drive caught my eye.
WITNESSES.
Inside were names.
My assistant.
A waiter from Boston.
A neighbor.
Lily's teacher.
Beside each name were notes describing moments I supposedly appeared confused.
The waiter entry included a payment receipt.
Five hundred dollars from a company called North Reach Consulting.
I searched the company.
No real website.
P.O. box in Delaware.
Registered agent: Hale Corporate Services.
My phone rang.
Sarah.
I answered.
"Hey."
"You sound strange."
My throat tightened.
"Didn't sleep."
"Again?"
There was the pause.
The clinical pause.
"Marcus, maybe we should talk to someone."
I looked at the fake assessment on my screen.
"About what?"
"Stress. Grief. Memory."
"You think I'm losing my mind?"
She laughed softly.
"Don't be dramatic."
I closed my eyes.
"You're right."
Silence.
She had expected a fight.
"I am?"
"Maybe I should get checked."
Her breathing changed.
Barely.
But I heard it.
"That would make me feel better."
"Then let's do it."
I hung up before my voice broke.
At noon, my assistant knocked on the office door.
"Your one o'clock is here early."
"Cancel it."
"He says it's personal."
"Who?"
She handed me a card.
DR. LEONARD VALE - FORENSIC NEUROPSYCHOLOGY.
The same name appeared on the January assessment.
I stared at the card.
"How does he know I'm here?"
My assistant frowned.
"He said your wife scheduled him."
I looked toward the frosted glass outside my office.
A man's silhouette waited.
My phone buzzed again.
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
I answered without speaking.
A male voice whispered, "Mr. Vance, don't let Vale examine you."
I stood.
"Who is this?"
"Someone who made that mistake before."
The line clicked dead.
Vale knocked once and entered anyway.
"Marcus?"
He smiled and extended a hand.
"Sarah tells me you've been having episodes."
I did not take his hand.
"Sarah tells people a lot of things."
His smile thinned.
"She also gave me video."
He opened his leather folder.
I saw my own name printed across the top of a recommendation letter.
The final paragraph was visible.
Patient may no longer be capable of independently managing financial trusts involving a minor beneficiary.
I looked up.
"What trust?"
Vale's fingers stopped.
For the first time, he looked surprised.
Then he closed the folder.
"You should ask your wife."
I reached across the desk and held the folder down.
"No."
My voice came out flat.
May you like
"I'm asking you."
