Chapter 7 - The Unravelling Conspiracy
By 8:00 AM, the McGregor estate was transformed into a command center.
Alistair’s personal legal team, led by top corporate prosecutor Marcus Vance, had arrived, along with independent medical specialists from the Johns Hopkins Pediatric Neurology Department.
In the private study downstairs, Marcus spread out a thick stack of financial documents and medical records on the mahogany desk.
“Alistair, it’s worse than we thought,” Marcus reported, his expression grave. “Dr. Richard Evans and Brenda Thompson have been running a coordinated medical fraud scheme for over eight years across four wealthy estates in the state.”
Alistair stood by the fireplace, a glass of untouched whiskey in his hand. His face was cold, mask-like, but his eyes burned with lethal intensity. “Explain.”
“When your wife passed away six years ago, Finley suffered a temporary post-traumatic motor regression due to a mild, non-degenerative spinal inflammation,” Marcus explained. “Dr. Evans realized that if he diagnosed Finley with a rare, progressive neurological degeneration, he could secure an open-ended medical trust funded by your estate.”
Marcus pulled out a bank ledger. “Brenda’s caretaking agency was created specifically to manage Finley’s isolation. They forged prescription records, administering mild neuromuscular sedatives—drugs designed to cause muscle weakness and fatigue—to ensure Finley would never have the physical energy to attempt walking.”
Alistair’s hand tightened around his crystal glass until the glass cracked. “They drugged my son?”
“For six years,” Marcus confirmed softly. “To keep him helpless. To keep the two-million-dollar annual trust flowing into their offshore shell companies.”
Suddenly, the doors of the study flew open. Dr. Richard Evans himself walked in, holding his leather medical bag, flanked by two confused security guards.
“Alistair!” Evans exclaimed, forcing a professional, concerned smile. “Brenda called me earlier claiming there was a medical emergency with Finley! I rushed over immediately—what is going on here?”
Alistair set his cracked glass down on the mantelpiece. He walked slowly across the room toward the doctor. The sheer physical menace radiating from the billionaire made Evans take an instinctual step back.
“Dr. Evans,” Alistair said, his voice dangerously soft. “How is my son’s progressive degeneration coming along?”
Evans blinked, regaining his composure. “Ah... as I’ve explained in my monthly reports, the cellular degradation is stable, but movement remains extremely dangerous. He must remain strictly bedridden—”
Before Evans could finish the sentence, Alistair grabbed him by his silk tie, yanked him forward, and shoved him hard against the wall.
“My son took six steps this morning, you bastard!” Alistair roared into the doctor’s face. “Independent specialists are in his room right now running blood panels! We already found the traces of Lorazepam and muscle relaxants in his system!”
Evans went as pale as a bedsheet, his jaw dropping in absolute terror. “Alistair... wait! Listen to me! It was Brenda’s idea! She approached me—!”
“Federal agents are waiting in the driveway, Evans,” Marcus Vance chimed in coldly from behind the desk. “Your medical license is revoked, your assets are frozen, and you are facing twenty years in federal prison for child endangerment, fraud, and illegal distribution of controlled substances.”
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Two uniformed FBI agents stepped into the study, pulling Evans’s arms behind his back and snapping steel cuffs over his wrists.
As they dragged the screaming doctor out of the house alongside Brenda, Alistair stood in the hallway, taking a deep, heavy breath. The monsters who had plagued his home were finally gone.
