At her daughter's wedding, a groom's public shove reveals his ruthless political plot for an heirloom orchard.
The shards of glass on the floor mirrored the shattered pieces of Nia’s worldview. She cleaned them mechanically, her mind reeling with the implications of Jamison’s confession. Digital alteration of medical records. Backdating entries. Fabricating a narrative of incapacity. It was all a calculated, cold-blooded fraud. And she had been part of it, albeit unknowingly. The guilt was a heavy, suffocating blanket.
Her initial ambition, her desire for a grand future with Jamison, now tasted like ash. She had believed his vision, believed he genuinely wanted to “modernize” Eden’s Reach for the community. Now, she understood it was always about him, his power, his trajectory to the governor’s mansion. She saw the orchard not as a stepping stone, but as a victim, just like Elias’s memory, just like my own reputation.
Nia knew she couldn’t confront Jamison directly. His ruthlessness was terrifying. She had seen his capacity for manipulation, his quick temper when challenged. She also knew that exposing him would implicate her. She had actively gathered information for him. The thought of facing the legal consequences, and the community’s scorn, filled her with a paralyzing fear.
Yet, she couldn’t live with this knowledge. Elias had been her father, a man she loved and respected. To allow Jamison to desecrate his memory, to steal his legacy through such blatant deceit, was unthinkable. My face, streaked with peach cobbler at the wedding, flashed in her mind. My silent pleas as Jamison pushed me. The look in my eyes. Nia felt a profound sense of shame.
She needed to act, but discreetly. She needed proof, irrefutable proof, that could expose Jamison without directly incriminating herself, or at least, not fully. The key, Jamison had boasted, was that no one would cross-reference the electronic records with the *original paper files*.
That phrase echoed in her mind. *Original paper files*.
Nia remembered Dr. Sharma’s office. It was indeed old school, still maintaining meticulous physical charts even after digitizing. A plan, risky and terrifying, began to form in her mind.
The next morning, Nia scrolled through her contacts, a knot of anxiety tightening in her stomach. She found the number for Marcus Thompson, my lawyer, but hesitated. Going to Marcus meant confessing her own role, however unwitting. She couldn’t do it. Not yet.
Instead, she called a former colleague, Brenda, who now worked as an administrative assistant at Dr. Sharma’s practice.
“Brenda, hey!” Nia forced a lightness into her voice she didn’t feel. “It’s Nia. I hope I’m not bothering you.”
“Nia! No, not at all. How are you? How’s married life?” Brenda chirped, oblivious.
“It’s… busy,” Nia replied, trying to sound casual. “Listen, I have a bit of an odd request. I was going through some old family papers, and I realized I seem to have misplaced a copy of one of my dad’s old medical reports. From about a year ago, maybe a little more. You know, for Elias Jenkins?”
She held her breath, waiting.
“Oh, sure. We can get you a copy, Nia,” Brenda said easily. “Just fill out a records request form. We’ll need a signature, and it usually takes a few days to process.”
“Right, the form,” Nia replied, a nervous flutter in her chest. “The thing is, Jamison and I are traveling next week, and I really need it sooner. It’s for some family estate planning stuff. Any chance I could just pop by today, fill out the form, and maybe… you could pull the physical file for me to review while I’m there? Just to make sure it’s the right one?”
She knew it was a long shot, but Brenda was a good friend, always willing to bend the rules slightly for a familiar face.
“A physical file, huh?” Brenda mused. “That’s unusual these days. But… for you, Nia. And for Elias, bless his soul. Let me check the schedule. Maybe during my lunch break, I could pull it for you to quickly glance at. No copies though, not without the formal request approved. Just a quick look.”
“Oh, thank you, Brenda!” Nia gushed, relief flooding her. “That would be a lifesaver. I’ll be there in an hour, if that works.”
A shaky breath escaped her as she hung up. The first step. The riskiest step.
Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Nia, Marcus Thompson was moving on his own front. Following my urgent call about Jamison’s blackmail and Reggie Tate’s confirmation of Jamison’s pattern, Marcus had changed his strategy. The POA was fraudulent, but proving Elias’s lucidity required more than just my word. He needed hard evidence.
Marcus had filed a motion, not just for Elias’s medical records, but for *all* of them, digital and physical, from Dr. Sharma’s practice, citing the discrepancies surrounding the Power of Attorney and the urgent need to establish Elias’s true cognitive state. He knew Jamison’s team would fight it, trying to hide behind patient confidentiality and legal delays, but the motion would put immense pressure on them, and on Dr. Sharma’s office.
“They’ll try to stonewall us, Celeste,” Marcus had told me that morning, his voice grim. “But we’ll force their hand. If there’s anything fishy, this motion will smoke it out.”
I had only nodded, my mind still consumed by Nia’s silence. The thought of my daughter being so deeply embroiled in Jamison’s deception, so actively involved in this scheme, was a constant, throbbing ache. I hoped, foolishly perhaps, that a spark of conscience might still reside within her.
Nia arrived at Dr. Sharma’s office an hour later, her heart pounding. Brenda met her in a small, private consultation room.
“Here it is,” Brenda said, setting down a thick, beige folder on the table. “Elias Jenkins’s original physical file. Just for a quick look, mind. I’ve got to run to lunch in a few.”
Nia’s hands trembled as she opened the file. Page after page, carefully handwritten notes, lab results, prescriptions. She scanned them, her eyes darting across the dates, searching for any mention of cognitive decline.
Her fingers found the entries from the period just before Elias signed the Power of Attorney. She read them, meticulously.
* “Patient reports feeling well, active in orchard management.”
* “Discussed upcoming community harvest festival plans.”
* “Patient presented with vibrant new peach variety he cultivated.”
* “Cognitive function appears excellent. Alert and oriented.”
Nothing. Absolutely nothing about confusion, disorientation, or any decline. In fact, Elias was described as remarkably lucid and engaged. A quiet fury built inside Nia. Jamison’s lies, his deliberate manipulation, were laid bare in these official, clinical notes.
She heard Brenda’s footsteps approaching. Her time was running out. Nia quickly flipped through the remaining pages, her eyes scanning for anything else. A small, printed sheet, almost hidden at the back. It was a summary sheet, printed from the *electronic* system, with a doctor’s signature. She quickly compared its entries to the handwritten ones.
There it was. Under the “Cognitive Assessment” section, for the exact dates where the paper file noted “excellent,” the electronic summary showed “intermittent confusion,” “occasional memory lapses,” and even “difficulty with complex decision-making” – all carefully backdated entries, mirroring Jamison’s boastful confession.
The proof was right there. A direct contradiction. The weight of it was immense, a tangible force pressing down on her. She had to act. She had to do something. For Elias. For her mother. And for her own ravaged conscience. Nia knew she only had one shot.
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