Chapter 8 - The Transfer
The helicopter paperwork listed the destination as a private medical facility in the Bahamas.
Reason for transfer:
Acute psychological distress.
I stared at the document Elena had quietly photographed.
Gregory was moving faster than I expected.
“He can’t legally do this.”
Elena gave me a tired look.
“Legally and practically are not always the same thing.”
“Who approved it?”
“Ship physician signed the recommendation.”
“Without examining me?”
“Yes.”
That signature gave us our first strong piece of evidence.
Dr. Malcolm Reed.
I requested an examination immediately.
Elena accompanied me.
Dr. Reed looked surprised when I entered his clinic.
“You requested a medical evacuation for me.”
His face went pale.
“I received information that you had become dangerous.”
“From whom?”
“Your husband.”
“And you signed this without seeing me?”
“I was told—”
“By Gregory Hartman?”
Silence.
I placed my phone on his desk.
Recording.
“Say it.”
Dr. Reed stared at the camera.
Then at Elena.
“I was contacted by corporate medical administration.”
“Who specifically?”
He swallowed.
“Howard Hartman.”
There it was.
The father.
The architect.
Dr. Reed removed his glasses.
“He told me there had been a prior psychiatric diagnosis.”
“There hasn’t.”
“He sent records.”
“Show me.”
He hesitated.
Elena stepped closer.
“Doctor.”
Reed turned his monitor toward us.
My name appeared on a medical report.
My birth date.
My address.
A diagnosis I had never received.
The document claimed I had experienced paranoid delusions and violent episodes following military service.
It looked authentic.
Except for one detail.
The psychiatrist listed on the report had supposedly treated me in San Diego three years earlier.
Three years earlier, I had been living in Okinawa.
I smiled.
“They made a mistake.”
Elena saw it immediately.
“What?”
“The date.”
I photographed everything.
Then called Naomi.
She answered on the first ring.
“I need you to verify a doctor.”
“Name?”
I gave it.
Naomi was quiet for twenty seconds.
Then she said, “Ashlynn.”
“What?”
“That psychiatrist died six years ago.”
My blood went cold.
The report had been fabricated.
Not merely exaggerated.
Fabricated.
Someone in the Hartman organization had created fake medical evidence before the honeymoon.
Which meant the baseball bat had never been an impulsive outburst.
The entire trip had been prepared.
I looked at Elena.
“We need to know when that document was created.”
Dr. Reed stared at the screen.
“I can tell you.”
He opened the metadata.
The creation date appeared.
Six weeks before our wedding.
And beneath it was the username of the person who uploaded it.
GHARTMAN.
May you like
Gregory had prepared to declare me mentally unstable before he ever said “I do.”
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