Chapter 3: A Doctor’s Reassessment

Dr. Ben Carter, Naomi’s attending physician, was a man of precise movements and quiet deference. He greeted me with a polite nod when I requested a private consultation. We sat in a small, sterile conference room, the fluorescent lights humming overhead.

“Colonel Reed,” he began, consulting a clipboard. “Dr. Wallace’s condition remains stable. We are seeing continued signs of recovery from the concussion and contusions.”

I leaned forward. “Doctor, with all due respect, I believe you are operating under a false premise.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “False premise, Colonel?”

“The Wallaces claim Naomi suffered a drunken fall. I assure you, my daughter does not drink. And even if she did, her injuries are inconsistent with a simple tumble.” I pulled the tiny bootie from my uniform pocket and placed it on the polished table between us. “And this was found hidden in her personal effects.”

Dr. Carter’s eyes widened, first at the bootie, then back to me, a flicker of discomfort in his gaze. He cleared his throat. “Colonel, I understand your concern. But my initial examination, and the Wallaces’ account, were consistent with… an accidental injury.”

“Consistent with *their* account,” I corrected, my voice firm. “But not with the physical evidence. Look again at her charts, Doctor. The bruises. The location. She has defensive wounds, doesn’t she?”

He hesitated, then reached for a folder. He flipped through the pages, his expression growing more thoughtful as he reviewed the diagrams of Naomi’s injuries. I watched his face carefully. He was a professional, not inherently malicious, but clearly influenced by the Wallaces’ formidable social standing.

“The bruising on her forearms,” I pressed, “and the backs of her hands. Those aren’t from losing your balance. Those are from trying to shield yourself.”

He nodded slowly, tracing a finger over a diagram. “You’re right. The pattern… it is suggestive of an attempt to ward off blows.” He looked up, his eyes meeting mine. “I noted them, of course, but without a clear narrative of assault, I attributed them to an awkward landing during the fall.”

“There was no fall, Doctor. There was an assault.” I stated it plainly, leaving no room for doubt. “And the bootie suggests a far deeper secret than mere drunkenness.”

He picked up the bootie, turning it over in his hand, a look of genuine surprise on his face. “A baby bootie…” he murmured. “Colonel, are you suggesting Dr. Wallace is pregnant?”

“Are you suggesting she isn’t?” I countered. “Has she had a full gynecological examination? Have her blood tests been thoroughly analyzed for any signs of pregnancy, however early?”

He paused, then went back to the charts, flipping to the lab results. He scrutinized them, then looked up, a fresh wave of concern washing over his features.

“Her initial blood work,” he began slowly, “showed a slight elevation in chorionic gonadotropin. HCG. It’s a hormone, a marker for early pregnancy. But the level was very low. I… I dismissed it as a stress-induced hormonal fluctuation, given her condition and the supposed circumstances of her injury.”

My heart seized. It was confirmation. Partial, but confirmation nonetheless. Naomi was pregnant.

“Dismissed it?” I asked, my voice sharp. “You dismissed a sign of pregnancy in an injured young woman with powerful in-laws who are trying to rush her into a private institution known for discretion, not medical care?”

He flinched. “Colonel, I assure you, my medical judgment was based on the information at hand. The Wallaces are highly respected members of this community. Their account carried significant weight.”

“Weight enough to overlook the clear signs of abuse and the subtle indications of a new life?” I pressed, refusing to let him off the hook. “Doctor, your professional ethics demand more than deference to community standing.”

He pushed a hand through his hair, visibly shaken. “You’re right, Colonel. My apologies. I… I will order a more comprehensive panel of tests. Immediately. And a full gynecological consult.” He stood up, his posture straighter, his voice firmer. “And I will document the defensive wounds as such in her official report.”

This was it. The crack in their carefully constructed facade.

“Thank you, Doctor,” I said, rising as well. “I trust you understand the urgency of this. And the need for absolute discretion regarding these new findings.”

He nodded grimly. “I do. I will personally oversee the tests. And I will make sure the Wallaces are not informed until we have definitive results. It’s my duty to the patient, first and foremost.”

Just as we were about to leave the conference room, I saw the Wallaces, Silas and Lucille, walking down the corridor, their expressions stern. They spotted us emerging from the room, and their eyes narrowed.

Silas stepped forward, his voice oozing false cordiality. “Dr. Carter, Colonel Reed. We were just coming to check on Naomi. Any new developments?” His gaze swept pointedly to me, then back to Dr. Carter, a silent warning in his eyes.

Dr. Carter met his gaze, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of defiance in the doctor’s usually accommodating demeanor. “Deacon Wallace, Sister Wallace. We’ve simply concluded a routine update on Dr. Wallace’s condition. I’m preparing some further diagnostic tests to ensure we haven’t missed anything.”

Lucille’s smile wavered. “Further tests? Dr. Carter, we were assured Naomi was on the mend. We need to finalize her transfer to the rest home.”

“Her recovery is my priority, Sister Wallace,” Dr. Carter said, his voice clipped, professional. “And all necessary medical protocols must be followed. I will inform you of the results in due course.”

The Wallaces looked between Dr. Carter and me, clearly sensing a shift, a new dynamic. The casual dismissiveness they usually employed was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating suspicion. Their control was weakening. But their resolve, I knew, was far from broken.

As they watched us, I felt the tension in the air. They were used to being obeyed, to having their word be law. Dr. Carter’s newfound firmness was a direct challenge to their authority.

Silas’s jaw worked. “Very well, Doctor. We await your results. But do remember, this is a very sensitive family matter. Our reputation…”

“My concern, Deacon Wallace,” Dr. Carter interrupted, his voice surprisingly steady, “is only for Naomi’s health. Good day.”

He gave a curt nod and walked away, heading straight for the nurses’ station, presumably to order the tests. The Wallaces were left standing there, their faces a mask of barely contained fury. They knew I had planted the seed of doubt. They knew something was shifting.

Lucille turned to me, her eyes like chips of ice. “Vivian, you are playing a dangerous game.”

“I’m protecting my daughter, Lucille,” I replied, my voice unwavering. “A game is what you’re playing with her life.”

I walked past them, feeling their simmering resentment like a physical heat on my back. The stakes were rising, higher than ever before. But now, I had an ally in the medical staff, however reluctant. And a clear path to the truth.