Chapter 4 - The Husband’s Alibi and Financial Ruins
By 4:00 PM, the investigation had widened into a full-scale hurricane.
Dr. Voss was suspended from his duties at Briarwood pending an internal audit and police questioning. When confronted with the midnight keycard logs, Voss vehemently denied ever entering Room 307 at 3:00 AM. He claimed his master administrative card had been kept in his office desk drawer, which had a faulty lock, or that someone had cloned his digital signature.
Meanwhile, financial investigators digging into Blake Hayes’s tech consulting firm, Apex Solutions, uncovered a reality far worse than emotional betrayal.
Blake was bankrupt.
For the past three years, while presenting himself to the world as a successful, grieving tech entrepreneur, Blake had been funneling money from corporate accounts into high-risk cryptocurrency speculations and failing startup ventures. Apex Solutions was currently facing three separate lawsuits for unpaid loans totaling over two million dollars.
More damningly, investigators discovered that six months ago, Blake had attempted to modify Natalie’s life insurance policy and her share of our late father’s estate trust. Because Natalie was legally incapacitated, any payout involving her medical negligence settlement from the truck accident required a court-appointed conservator’s approval—which I had consistently blocked.
However, under a obscure state probate statute, if a severely incapacitated person gives birth to a child, or if a dependent heir is produced, the legal framework governing spousal inheritance and trust distribution undergoes an immediate, radical shift.
In simple terms: a child would grant Blake direct, undisputed legal control over a multi-million-dollar trust fund without my oversight as co-guardian.
I sat in the back of Detective Miller’s unmarked car parked across the street from Blake’s sleek, modern glass-and-steel home in an upscale suburb. The house looked pristine from the outside, perfectly manicured lawns, a luxury BMW parked in the driveway. But inside, it was a house built on sand.
“He has an alibi for last night,” Detective Cruz said, staring through the windshield at the front door. “He was at a charity dinner in downtown Chicago with three city council members. He was surrounded by witnesses from 7:00 PM to midnight.”
“He doesn’t need to have been there every night,” I said, my teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached. “If he’s been paying someone—someone inside Briarwood—to handle the logistics while he plays the grieving husband in public?”
“That’s what we’re trying to prove,” Miller said, his phone buzzing in his hand. He glanced at the screen, and his expression hardened. “That was forensics. They ran trace DNA collection from Natalie’s hospital room. They pulled skin cells and fiber samples from the bedsheets.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. “And?”
“The DNA does not belong to Dr. Voss,” Miller said quietly. “And it doesn’t belong to any of the night-shift orderlies currently on record.”
“Whose is it?”
“It’s a partial match to someone with familial relation to the household,” Miller said, looking directly at me. “Or someone whose DNA is already logged in the state database for a prior felony conviction.”
Before I could ask for a name, Miller’s radio crackle broke the silence.
May you like
“Dispatch to Unit Four. We have an emergency at Briarwood Neurological Care Center. Room 307. Fetal monitor distress. Requesting immediate medical transport.”
My breath stopped. I threw the car door open before Miller could even shift into gear.
