Chapter 8 - THE NIGHT THEY TRIED TO SILENCE OLIVIA|
By the next morning, Olivia had made a decision.
She was going back to the rehabilitation clinic.
Luca argued with her for nearly twenty minutes.
He wanted her to remain at the mansion until the police understood who had been following her.
Olivia listened patiently.
Then she folded her arms.
"Brother, I've spent eighteen months being told where I can go, what I can do, and how careful I need to be."
"This is my appointment."
"I'm not canceling my life because Vanessa wants me frightened."
Luca stared at her.
I stood beside the door, trying not to smile.
Olivia had always been gentle.
But beneath that gentleness was the stubborn determination that had made her a successful architect.
She had designed buildings other people said were impossible.
She wasn't going to let her sister-in-law design the rest of her life.
Finally, Luca nodded.
"Then we arrange proper protection."
Detective Torres approved a safety plan that included a police check of the clinic and additional security.
Rosa accompanied us.
The rehabilitation center occupied three floors of a medical building near downtown Chicago.
I knew the place well.
For six months, I had driven Olivia there twice a week.
I had watched her cry through painful exercises.
I had celebrated when she moved her toes for the first time after weeks of trying.
And I had learned something important.
Recovery did not always look like standing up.
Sometimes it looked like asking for help without shame.
Sometimes it meant knowing when to rest.
And sometimes it meant refusing to let other people measure your worth by the number of steps you could take.
That morning, Olivia completed twenty minutes of strengthening exercises.
Then Dr. Harper helped her practice standing between the parallel bars.
I stayed beside her, ready to assist if asked.
Olivia managed eighteen seconds before sitting down.
She was exhausted.
But she smiled.
"Twenty seconds next time."
"Or fifteen," I said.
"Whatever your body allows."
She laughed.
"You're getting better at this."
"At what?"
"Not treating every session like a race."
We were still laughing when the fire alarm sounded.
A sharp electronic siren echoed through the rehabilitation gym.
The therapists immediately began directing patients toward the exits.
Rosa spoke into her radio.
"Possible disturbance on the third floor."
A staff member hurried toward us.
"Everyone needs to evacuate."
Olivia looked toward the hallway.
"Claire, my bag."
It was hanging on the back of her wheelchair.
I reached for it.
Then I noticed a man wearing maintenance coveralls standing beside the storage room.
He was looking directly at us.
Something about him bothered me.
Not his clothes.
Not his face.
The way he watched Olivia's bag instead of moving toward the emergency exit.
"Rosa," I whispered.
She turned.
I pointed.
The man suddenly started toward us.
"Ma'am, I'll take that for you."
He reached for the bag.
I pulled it against my chest.
"No, thank you."
His expression changed.
"I work here."
"Then follow the evacuation instructions," Rosa said.
He glanced toward the stairwell.
Then he grabbed the bag.
I stumbled.
Before he could pull it free, Olivia drove her wheelchair forward and positioned it between us.
"Let go of her!"
The man froze for a fraction of a second.
Rosa caught his wrist.
He tried to twist away, but another security officer reached the hallway.
Together, they stopped him while the clinic staff called the police.
I dropped onto a nearby bench, shaking.
Olivia rolled toward me.
"Are you hurt?"
I shook my head.
"No."
She touched my shoulder.
"Then we're okay."
I stared at her.
"You moved toward him."
"He was hurting you."
"Olivia, you could have been injured."
She gave me a look that reminded me painfully of her brother.
"Claire, using a wheelchair doesn't mean I stop being brave."
I laughed through my tears.
"You're right."
The alarm turned out to have been triggered manually.
There was no fire.
And the man who had tried to steal Olivia's bag was not a clinic employee.
He carried a forged maintenance identification card.
The police later identified him as a private investigator employed by a firm connected to Graham Ward.
He had been attempting to obtain Olivia's medical and therapy records.
Those records had been targeted before.
Detective Torres explained that investigators had discovered a draft legal petition on a computer seized during an unrelated financial-records inquiry.
The petition alleged that Olivia was incapable of managing her affairs.
It proposed transferring control of her foundation responsibilities to a temporary representative.
I stared at the detective.
"Vanessa wanted the court to declare Olivia incompetent?"
"That's what the documents suggest."
Olivia's face went pale.
For months, Vanessa had told people she was too emotional, too fragile, and too confused to make decisions.
Now we understood why.
She wasn't merely trying to humiliate Olivia.
She was creating a false story that might allow someone else to control the charitable foundation.
Luca arrived twenty minutes later.
When he saw Olivia unharmed, relief overwhelmed his anger.
He knelt beside her wheelchair.
"I'm sorry."
She tilted her head.
"For what this time?"
"For thinking keeping you inside the house would solve everything."
Olivia touched his cheek.
"I don't need a prison, Luca."
"I need a brother."
He bowed his head.
"You have one."
That evening, Olivia asked Detective Torres to review the foundation documents she had saved before her accident.
She had recovered access to an old email account.
Inside was a draft message addressed to the Illinois Attorney General's office.
It had been written the night before her crash.
The subject line read:
Evidence of financial fraud involving the North Star Foundation.
Beneath the draft was a file containing the names of every person Olivia suspected.
Vanessa Ward.
Graham Ward.
Adrian Vale.
And one more name.
A name that made Luca go completely still.
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Because the fourth person on Olivia's list was someone who had helped build the Moretti family's business empire.
Someone Luca had once trusted with his life.
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