Chapter 4 - The Evaluation
The evaluation room was designed to look like an elegant library—plush leather armchairs, a mahogany desk, and soft, warm lighting designed to soothe anxious patients.
Abigail sat on the left side of the room, her posture perfect, her face a canvas of deep, performing sorrow. Eleanor sat in the center chair, her head lowered, her fingers picking at the loose threads of her oversized cardigan, still muttering under her breath about the "red cars and the salt." Samuel stood near the door, his arms crossed over his chest, acting as the silent, stoic observer.
Dr. Harrison sat behind his desk, the manila folder Samuel had given him laid flat on the blotter. He didn't look at Abigail; his eyes were fixed entirely on Eleanor.
"Good morning, Eleanor," Dr. Harrison said gently, his voice carrying a calm, clinical warmth. "Do you know where you are today?"
Eleanor looked up, her eyes wide and glassy. She glanced at Abigail, who gave her a reassuring, tight nod.
"The kitchen is cold," Eleanor whispered, her voice shaking. "We have to lock the doors because the men with the guns are coming from the airport. Sammy brought them in his green bag."
Abigail sighed softly, leaning toward the doctor. "You see, Dr. Harrison? This is the constant state of anxiety she’s in. She associates Samuel’s return with military aggression. She’s been talking about 'men with guns' since yesterday afternoon."
"I see," Dr. Harrison murmured. He turned a page in the folder. "Eleanor, can you tell me what day of the week it is?"
"It’s the day when the money goes to the sky," Eleanor said, a strange, eerie smile touching her lips. "Eighty thousand birds, Dr. Harrison. Flying right out of the computer. Abigail caught them. She put them in her little gold box."
Abigail’s breath caught for a fraction of a second. A tiny, cold drop of sweat formed at the base of her neck, but she quickly recovered, letting out a soft, maternal chuckle. "She’s referring to a commercial she saw on television about online banking, Doctor. Her mind takes these modern concepts and twists them into financial delusions. She’s convinced I’m hiding money from her."
"Is that so?" Dr. Harrison asked. He stood up from his desk and walked over to Eleanor. He knelt down beside her chair, his movements deliberate. "Eleanor, may I look at your wrists? Your wife mentioned you had a fall near the rose bushes last week."
"No!" Abigail said, standing up a bit too quickly from her chair. "Doctor, she’s highly sensitive about physical contact during her episodes. She might get combative."
"I’m a trained physician, Mrs. Vance," Dr. Harrison said without looking back at her. His voice carried a sharp, professional edge that made Abigail freeze in her tracks. "I know how to handle sensitive patients."
Gently, Dr. Harrison reached out and pulled back the long, frayed sleeves of Eleanor’s cardigan.
The room seemed to drop ten degrees.
Exposed under the warm library lights were the deep, horizontal ring-shaped bruises encircling both of Eleanor’s wrists. They weren't the jagged, erratic scrapes of a woman who had fallen into a bush. They were perfectly symmetrical, deep purple indentations caused by heavy industrial plastic restraints that had been pulled tight against the skin until the capillaries burst.
Abigail’s face turned the color of chalk. "She... she must have done that this morning while I was getting her dressed. She has a habit of rubbing her skin against the bed frame when she’s locked in her safety routine."
"These are restraint injuries, Mrs. Vance," Dr. Harrison said, his voice terrifyingly calm. He stood up, turning around to face Abigail fully. He opened the folder on his desk and pulled out a high-resolution printout of the home security cloud logs. "And according to the residential access data I am currently holding, the master bedroom door in your house was locked from the outside for sixteen hours yesterday, while your husband was traveling from the military base."
Abigail took a step back, her eyes darting toward Samuel, who was still standing by the door. His face was a mask of cold stone.
"Sam?" Abigail whispered, her voice losing its elegant, country-club composure. "What... what is this? What did you give him?"
"He gave me the truth, Abigail," Eleanor said.
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The voice didn't come from a confused, dementia-ridden old woman. The trembling slowness was completely gone. Eleanor sat up straight in her chair, her shoulders squaring, her eyes turning into two pieces of sharp, brilliant ice. She looked directly at her daughter-in-law with an expression of absolute, unadulterated contempt.
"The bank isn't closed on Tuesdays, Abby," Eleanor said, her voice smooth, articulate, and completely steady. "And the eighty thousand dollars you tried to wire to your private escrow account in Panama at midnight? My son canceled the transfer four hours ago."
