Brian refused to sit down.
He stood staring at the photograph as though the image might change if he watched it long enough.
“That isn't possible.”
The detective enlarged it.
The timestamp was embedded in the original file.
Two days after the date on Brian's father's death certificate.
Daniel leaned closer.
“Can you identify the hospital?”
Brian nodded.
“St. Mary's.”
The detective looked at him.
“Was your father treated there?”
“Not according to my mother.”
“What did she tell you?”
“That he collapsed at home.”
Brian's voice became quieter.
“She said the ambulance couldn't save him.”
I looked at the photograph again.
His father was standing.
He appeared tired, but alive.
There was an IV taped to his hand.
A hospital bracelet around his wrist.
Thomas Hale stood beside him.
Patricia was there too.
The image had been taken from a distance, almost as though someone had been hiding.
Daniel asked the detective, “Can the metadata be trusted?”
“Not by itself.”
“But the hospital records?”
“We're checking them.”
Brian shook his head.
“My mother was there.”
The detective nodded.
“Apparently.”
“She told me she never left his side.”
I looked at him.
“Maybe she didn't.”
He turned toward me.
“What?”
“Maybe she was telling the truth about being there.”
Brian stared at me.
Then his expression changed.
“But she said he died at home.”
“Yes.”
He sat slowly.
“Why would she lie about that?”
Daniel answered before I could.
“Because she needed everyone to believe the death happened when it did.”
Brian looked at him.
“To hide what?”
“That is what we're trying to find out.”
The detective received another call.
He listened.
“Okay.”
He ended the call.
“St. Mary's has records.”
Brian stood again.
“Then let's go.”
The detective stopped him.
“You can't just walk into the hospital.”
“I need to know.”
“We'll arrange access.”
We waited nearly an hour.
When the hospital administrator brought the records, Brian looked as though he might collapse.
His father had been admitted three days before the recorded date of death.
The admission was under a different name.
But the medical record number matched.
Brian stared at the page.
“He was there for three days.”
“Yes.”
“What was wrong with him?”
The administrator hesitated.
“Your father had been poisoned.”
The room went silent.
I felt the blood leave my face.
“Poisoned?”
The detective nodded.
“The hospital suspected it.”
“Then why wasn't it on the death certificate?”
“Because he was discharged.”
Brian stared.
“He was discharged?”
“Yes.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
Brian looked at me.
His father's official death occurred two days later.
But the hospital had released him alive.
The detective asked for the discharge records.
The signature belonged to Thomas Hale.
Brian whispered, “He took my father out of the hospital.”
Daniel looked at the administrator.
“Why?”
“We don't know.”
The detective asked for security footage.
The hospital had retained some recordings.
The footage showed Hale helping Brian's father into a wheelchair.
Patricia followed.
Another man waited near the entrance.
The image was blurry.
But Brian recognized him.
“Derek.”
I looked at him.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
The three men left together.
Patricia stayed behind for several minutes.
Then she followed.
The detective paused the footage.
“Your father wasn't dead.”
Brian shook his head.
“No.”
The next footage showed them arriving at a private clinic.
Then the trail stopped.
Daniel looked at the detective.
“Can we identify the clinic?”
“We're working on it.”
Brian sat down.
“My mother watched me bury him.”
His voice cracked.
“She knew.”
I put my hand on his shoulder.
He didn't pull away.
For a few minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then Daniel asked the hospital administrator for one more record.
“Who paid the medical bill?”
The administrator checked.
“A private account.”
“Name?”
He read the record.
“Angela Brooks.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
The account number matched the account from the flash drive.
The one opened in my name.
The room went silent.
Brian looked at me.
“I didn't know.”
“I know.”
The administrator left.
The detective closed the folder.
“Someone has been using your identity for years.”
Daniel nodded.
“And your father-in-law may have deliberately used your name to protect the money.”
“But why?”
“Because nobody would suspect a nurse with no connection to the company.”
I thought about that.
Then something else occurred to me.
“Where did my father-in-law meet me?”
Brian frowned.
“The charity program.”
“Exactly.”
I looked at Daniel.
“What if he didn't just trust me?”
Daniel's eyes narrowed.
“What do you mean?”
“What if he deliberately made it look like the account belonged to me?”
Brian stared.
“To protect it.”
Daniel nodded slowly.
“The account existed before his death.”
“And the payments came through my name.”
“Yes.”
The detective looked at the records.
“Which means the person who eventually accessed it may have believed Angela was the actual owner.”
“That person was Hale.”
“Possibly.”
“But then why did Patricia need to frame me?”
Daniel answered.
“To make the account appear connected to criminal activity.”
I understood.
If I were accused of stealing money, the hidden account could be dismissed as part of the same fraud.
The real money could disappear.
The investigation would stop at me.
I felt sick.
“Then the sixty-one thousand was bait.”
Daniel nodded.
“And you were the bait's target.”
The detective's phone rang.
He answered.
His face changed.
“What?”
He listened.
Then said, “Send it to me.”
He hung up.
“What happened?” Brian asked.
“A bank employee found an old physical file.”
“What file?”
“An account-opening packet.”
The detective looked at me.
“It contains the original photograph used to open your account.”
My heart tightened.
“Who took the photograph?”
“We don't know.”
“Can I see it?”
He nodded.
The photograph was brought to us.
It was me.
But I didn't remember taking it.
I looked at the image.
The background was familiar.
My kitchen.
My hair was pulled back.
I was wearing a gray sweater.
Brian stared.
“When was this?”
I shook my head.
“I don't know.”
Daniel studied it.
“Look at the wall.”
I did.
A calendar hung behind me.
The date was visible.
Three years earlier.
Brian looked at me.
“You were home that day.”
“Yes.”
“Who took the photograph?”
I thought.
Then remembered.
“Patricia.”
Brian froze.
“What?”
“She came to the house.”
“When?”
“Three years ago. She said she wanted a family photo.”
Brian stared at me.
“My mother took your picture.”
“Yes.”
The detective photographed the evidence.
Then he opened another file.
“There's more.”
He showed us a second image.
Patricia standing behind me.
Holding my driver's license.
I felt my stomach turn.
She hadn't started this scheme six months ago.
She had been preparing for it years earlier.
Brian closed his eyes.
“How long has she been lying to us?”
The detective answered carefully.
“At least four years.”
I looked at the photograph.
The woman behind me was smiling.
I remembered that day.
I remembered trusting her.
I remembered thinking she finally wanted to be close to me.
Now I understood.
She hadn't been taking a family photograph.
She had been collecting my identity.
And somewhere in the years between that photograph and the sixty-one-thousand-dollar withdrawal, someone had decided my life would be the perfect cover for a crime.
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: Patricia Finally Explained the Photograph, but Her Confession Revealed She Had Been Protecting Someone Far More Dangerous
The Accusation That Turned Nine Years of Marriage Into a Question I Could Not Answer
Part 10 of 20
