Within forty-five minutes, two adult-protective investigators arrived, along with Special Agent Marcus Thorne — a former colleague of mine from the public-corruption division.

While the staff took high-resolution photos of Dad’s wrists, Dr. Ross handed Thorne the toxicology profile.

“The blood work shows a near-complete absence of his prescribed beta-blockers,” she said, her voice clipped with professional anger. “Without them, a patient with his cardiac history is at extreme risk of a fatal arrhythmia within forty-eight to seventy-two hours.

Whoever had custody of him wasn’t just neglecting him, Agent Vance. They were waiting for his heart to stop.”

I went back into the bay and sat beside the bed. Dad was on an IV now, his color creeping back, though his eyes were still clouded with confusion and a deep, old shame.

He looked at me, his lip trembling. “Clara… I’m sorry. I didn’t want to bother you at work. Your brother — he said if I didn’t sign the power of attorney over to Chloe, they’d put me in a state home.”