Chapter 4 - The Rat’s Trap
By Friday, the eviction notice was the talk of the town.
Beatrice had tried to maintain appearances, calling her country club friends to complain about a "temporary accounting glitch," but the gossip in Bayside Heights was relentless. The neighborhood knew the police had been called to the Hartley estate twice in one week to keep the peace.
But Richard was not going quietly.
On Saturday morning, while Grandpa was resting in his room, my phone rang. It was an unknown number. I answered, expecting a telemarketer.
"Avery," Richard's voice sneered through the receiver. "I hope you're enjoying your temporary victory. But you forgot one very important thing."
My heart gave a heavy, nervous thud, but I kept my voice calm. "What's that, Richard?"
"Your grandfather's medical records," he said, a cold, triumphant chuckle echoing through the line. "Two years ago, when Theodore had his mild stroke, we had him evaluated by a private specialist in New York. We paid him very well to write a comprehensive psychiatric report stating that Theodore was suffering from early-onset vascular dementia and was incapable of making sound financial or legal decisions."
I froze. "That's a lie. Grandpa is sharper than both of us combined."
"It doesn't matter what the truth is, Avery," Richard laughed. "What matters is what is on the signed medical document. I have already submitted that report to the probate court. We are filing an emergency motion to invalidate the trust, the will changes, and your power of attorney. By Monday afternoon, Theodore will be declared a ward of the state, and Beatrice and I will be appointed his permanent conservators. And once we have control... we are placing him in the Shady Pines memory care facility. And you? You'll be sued for elder abuse and manipulation."
The line went dead.
I stared at my phone, the blood running cold in my veins. Richard had planned this. He had kept a forged or bribed medical report in his back pocket as a nuclear option, ready to destroy his own father's sanity just to protect his stolen wealth.
I ran to Grandpa's room, my chest heaving. "Grandpa! We have a problem."
Theodore looked up from his book, his eyes calm, his face untroubled. "I heard, Avery. The phone in the hallway was off the hook. I heard everything."
"What do we do?" I cried, my hands shaking. "If they have a signed medical report from a licensed specialist, the judge might freeze everything again. They'll lock you away."
Grandpa Theodore slowly closed his book and stood up. He walked over to his closet, reaching into the very back of his high shelf. He pulled out a small, dusty black leather notebook.
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"Richard thinks he is the only one who knows how to play dirty," Grandpa said, a faint, cold smile playing on his lips. "But he forgot who taught him how to think. This notebook contains the personal cell phone number of Dr. Harrison Vance—Evelyn’s brother, and the former Chief of Neurology at Yale New Haven Hospital."
He handed me the book. "Call him, Avery. Tell him Theodore Whitaker needs an immediate, independent psychiatric evaluation. And tell him we want it filmed."
