“What?” Marcus demanded.
“That’s my doctor,” I said, the words tasting unreal. “Dr. Andrew Prescott. My family physician.”
There was a beat of silence on the line, then Marcus’s voice hardened. “Your doctor.”
“Yes,” I said, and my throat tightened around panic. “He’s been treating me for five years.”
Marcus exhaled sharply. “Mr. Whitmore, listen carefully. I ran Prescott while I was running your wife. He lost his medical license in Ontario six years ago for insurance fraud. Got it reinstated in BC under questionable circumstances. He’s been investigated for improper prescribing twice.”
The dizziness, the nausea, the heart fluttering—my body suddenly made horrible sense.
“If she’s with him,” I whispered, “she’s trying to kill me.”
“That’s where my mind goes,” Marcus said grimly. “I’m calling police right now.”
“No,” I said, and the word came out too fast.
“Thomas—”
“I need to see,” I interrupted, voice shaking. “I need to know it’s real. I need to hear it.”
Marcus swore softly. “If they’re planning to hurt you, confronting them is dangerous.”
“I’m not confronting anyone,” I said. “Just… one hour. Then you call police. Please.”
A long pause. Then: “One hour. But I’m tracking your phone. If anything goes sideways, I call 911.”
“Okay.”
“And take your granddaughter somewhere safe,” Marcus added. “First.”
Sophie looked up at me, eyes wide.
“I’m taking her to Catherine,” I said.
