Daniel rubbed his forehead.
“Which documents?”
“A nursing escalation note.”
“Two pharmacy communication records.”
“A consultation request.”
“And an internal incident review.”
Daniel stopped.
“What incident?”
Allison hesitated.
“That is what triggered the reimbursement review.”
“What reimbursement?”
“Medication charge adjustment.”
Daniel stared at the wall.
“Was something given to her incorrectly?”
“I can’t interpret clinical findings for you.”
“Then send me everything.”
“Yes.”
She paused.
“There is one thing you should know.”
“What?”
“The internal review includes another person’s name.”
Daniel leaned forward.
“Who?”
“I can't discuss that over the phone until legal finishes redaction.”
“Why?”
“Because that individual was not hospital staff.”
Daniel’s skin tightened.
“Family?”
“I can’t say.”
“Friend?”
“I really can’t say.”
Daniel looked toward the burned mailbox through the front window.
Something about the timing felt strange.
Three years.
No records.
Then suddenly a letter appeared.
Karen set the mailbox on fire the same afternoon.
And Karen said:
“She needs to learn a lesson.”
Daniel knew enough not to turn coincidence into proof.
But he also knew enough not to ignore it.
“When will the records be ready?”
“By tomorrow.”
That night, Daniel did not sleep well.
His mother’s final week had never made sense to him.
Margaret had been admitted after becoming severely dehydrated during chemotherapy.
Doctors initially expected two nights.
Maybe three.
She worsened on the second evening.
Confusion.
Low blood pressure.
Respiratory distress.
Then an unexpected cardiac event.
She died five days later.
Daniel asked questions.
The answers always sounded incomplete.
Complications.
Treatment burden.
Underlying disease.
No one ever said a mistake occurred.
But Margaret had been strangely alert during one brief window the morning before she died.
Daniel sat beside her bed.
She squeezed his hand.
Then said:
“Don't trust the woman with the purple glasses.”
He thought she was delirious.
“Mom?”
“Purple.”
“What woman?”
Margaret’s eyes closed.
Daniel asked again later.
She never answered.
For three years, he interpreted the sentence as medication confusion.
Now he remembered Karen’s oversized purple sunglasses.
He stood so quickly the kitchen chair fell backward.
“No.”
He stared through the dark window toward Karen’s house.
No.
Impossible.
Karen had moved into the neighborhood only two years earlier.
At least that was what Daniel believed.
Then he realized something.
He had never actually asked.
CHAPTER 5: KAREN BEFORE KAREN
Daniel searched property records first.
Karen Whitaker bought the house next door twenty-six months earlier.
Before that, she lived across town.
Her prior address was 1827 Glenwood Terrace.
Daniel knew the street.
It was less than a mile from the hospital.
He searched Karen’s name more broadly.
Nothing useful appeared at first.
Then he found an archived community newsletter.
Volunteer Auxiliary Recognition — St. Joseph Regional Hospital.
There was a photograph.
Six volunteers stood beside a donation cart.
Third from the left:
Karen Whitaker.
Same face.
Less gray in the hair.
Same purple sunglasses sitting on top of her head.