“Good afternoon. This is Roxanne Sullivan, Tony Sullivan’s mother. I’m calling to check on the status of his settlement claim.”
The paralegal who answered was polite, but firm. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Sullivan, but we can only discuss case details with the client or his designated representative.”
“His designated representative. That would be his wife, Michelle?”
“I can’t confirm or deny. Of course, I understand. Thank you for your time.”
I hung up, frustrated. Every door seemed locked.
That evening, Tony called me. His voice sounded different, sharper, more alert than it had been in our last conversation. “Mom, Michelle said you stopped by yesterday.”
“I did. I’m sorry if I intruded.”
“No, no, it’s fine. I just… I wanted to ask you something.” He paused, and I heard a door close in the background. “Have you noticed anything strange lately? With Michelle, I mean?”
My pulse quickened. “Strange how?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m imagining it. The medication makes me confused sometimes. But I feel like… like I’m missing chunks of time. And Michelle keeps telling me things happened that I don’t remember.”
“Like what?”
“Like appointments. Phone calls. She said the lawyer called three days ago with an update on the settlement, and I supposedly talked to him for twenty minutes. Mom, I have no memory of that conversation. None.”
I gripped the phone tighter. “Tony, what medication are you taking? Exactly?”
“I’m not sure. Michelle manages all that. Some pain medication. Something for muscle spasms. Something to help me sleep. She organizes it all in those daily pill containers.”
“Do you know the names?”
“No, I… should I?”
I forced my voice to stay calm. “Sweetheart, I think it would be good for you to know what you’re putting in your body, just for your own records. Could you check the bottles?”
“Yeah, I guess. Michelle usually…” He stopped. “She’s home. I have to go. Love you, Mom.”
The line went dead. I sat in the growing darkness of my living room, my mind racing. Tony was being drugged into compliance. I was almost certain now.
Kept foggy and confused while Michelle orchestrated whatever scheme she and Dr. Harrison had planned. But I still had no proof. Nothing concrete. Just suspicions and overheard conversations and a mother’s desperate certainty that something was terribly wrong.
Monday morning, I made a decision that terrified me. I drove back to Dr. Harrison’s office, but this time I went inside. The receptionist looked up with a professional smile. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, I’m Roxanne Sullivan. I’d like to make an appointment for a consultation. I’ve been having some hip pain, and a friend recommended Dr. Harrison.”
“Of course. Let me check his availability.” She clicked through her computer. “I have an opening Thursday at two.”
“Perfect.” As she took down my information, I glanced around. The patient files were visible behind her in a cabinet, color-coded tabs marking different sections. “I notice you don’t have many people waiting. Is Dr. Harrison accepting new patients?”
“Oh, yes. Though he’s been selective lately. He’s starting a new phase of his practice. More specialized treatment.”
“Specialized how?”
She leaned in conspiratorially. “Between you and me, he’s moving toward more long-term care cases. Patients who need ongoing therapy over months or years. Better for business, I suppose.”
Long-term care. Settlement money. The pieces were clicking together.
“Well, I’m glad I called. See you Thursday.”
I left before she could ask any more questions. In my car, I pulled out my phone and did something I never thought I’d do. I searched for “signs of medication overdose” and “drug-induced confusion.” Every symptom matched what Tony had described.
That afternoon, my phone rang. Unknown number. I answered cautiously.
“Mrs. Sullivan? This is Detective Jody Meek from the—” My heart stopped. Had something happened to Tony? “—Financial Crimes Unit. I’m calling because your name came up in connection with an ongoing investigation. I’d like to ask you a few questions about Dr. Marcus Harrison. Would you be available to meet tomorrow?”
I gripped the steering wheel. “An investigation? What kind of investigation?”
“I’d prefer to discuss this in person. Are you free around 10 AM?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” She gave me an address, the police station downtown, and hung up.
I sat in my driveway, shaking. A detective. Financial crimes. Dr. Harrison was already under investigation. This meant whatever he and Michelle were planning, I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed something wrong—but it also meant I was running out of time.
Detective Sarah Park—I’d misheard the name on the phone as “Meek”—was younger than I expected, maybe forty, with sharp eyes that missed nothing. Her office was small, cluttered with file folders and a coffee maker that looked like it had seen better days.
“Thank you for coming in, Mrs. Sullivan.” She gestured to a chair across from her desk. “Can I get you coffee? Water?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” I sat, my purse clutched in my lap. “You said this was about Dr. Harrison?”
“In a way.” She pulled out a slim folder. “How well do you know Marcus Harrison?”
“I don’t, really. He’s my son’s physical therapist.”
“After the accident? Tell me about the accident.”
So I did. The distracted driver, Tony’s injuries, the long hospitalization, the ongoing therapy. Detective Park listened without interrupting, occasionally making notes.
“And your daughter-in-law, Michelle Sullivan? She’s been managing his care?”
“Yes, she’s been… wonderful.” The word felt like ash in my mouth, but I needed to understand what the detective knew before I revealed my own suspicions.
“Mrs. Sullivan, I’m going to be direct with you. We’ve been investigating Dr. Harrison for insurance fraud. Multiple patients, multiple claims, a pattern of documented therapy sessions that never actually occurred.”
My breath caught. “Tony’s appointments.”
“Possibly. We’ve identified at least six cases where patients believed they were receiving treatment, but clinic records show the sessions happened when Dr. Harrison was documented elsewhere. Yet insurance claims were filed and paid for those sessions.”
“The patients believed they were receiving treatment?” I repeated slowly. “Even though they weren’t?”
Detective Park’s expression was carefully neutral. “In several cases, the patients had memory issues—side effects from medication, they were told. Their spouses or caregivers confirmed the appointments happened, managed the transportation, everything. The patients themselves had only vague recollections.”
I felt cold. “And the caregivers?”
“That’s where it gets interesting. In four of the six cases we’ve identified, the caregivers had personal relationships with Dr. Harrison—a brother-in-law, a former college roommate, in one case, an ex-girlfriend.”
“And Michelle?” I could barely get the words out.
Detective Park opened the folder and slid a photograph across the desk. It showed Dr. Harrison and Michelle sitting at an outdoor cafe, their heads close together, his hand covering hers on the table. The date stamp was from eight months ago—two months before Tony’s accident.
“This was taken by a private investigator hired by Dr. Harrison’s wife,” Park explained. “She suspected an affair. She filed for divorce six months ago.”
I stared at the photograph. “Before the accident.”
“Yes.”
The implications crashed over me. “They knew each other. Before Tony was injured. Before he became Dr. Harrison’s patient.”
“We believe so. But Mrs. Sullivan, understanding something and proving it in court are very different things. That’s why I called you. We need someone on the inside. Someone Tony trusts who can document what’s actually happening.”
“You want me to spy on my own daughter-in-law.”
“I want you to protect your son.” Detective Park leaned forward. “If our theory is correct, Dr. Harrison and Michelle have been running a variation of this scheme with multiple patients. Manufacture or exploit an injury. Establish a long-term treatment plan. File fraudulent insurance claims. And in cases where there’s a settlement involved, take the money and disappear.”
“I finished. Possibly. Or maintain control of an incapacitated patient who’s worth more alive and dependent than recovered.”
“Mrs. Sullivan, has your son’s condition improved at all in the past six months?”
I thought about it. Really thought about it. “No. If anything, he seems worse. More confused. More dependent. Despite months of therapy.”
“Despite months of supposed therapy,” Detective Park corrected gently. “We need documentation. Records of medications. Proof that Tony isn’t actually attending the sessions Michelle claims he is. Any financial documents showing where the insurance payments are going.”
“How am I supposed to get all that without Michelle knowing?”
“Very carefully.” She slid a business card across the desk. “That’s my direct line. Day or night. If you feel unsafe at any point, you call me immediately. Do you understand?”
The word unsafe made it real in a way nothing else had. My own daughter-in-law might be dangerous. I took the card with trembling fingers.
“What about Tony? He called me a few days ago. Said he was having memory problems. What if they’ve already…”
“We don’t believe he’s in immediate physical danger. He’s worth more to them healthy enough to sign documents but confused enough not to question anything. But Mrs. Sullivan? That settlement check is supposed to clear in three weeks. Once they have that money, the dynamic changes.”
“What happens in three weeks?”
Detective Park’s expression was grim. “Best case? They disappear and Tony’s left in a nursing facility somewhere, wondering what happened. Worst case?” She didn’t finish the sentence.
I stood on shaking legs. “I’ll get you what you need.”
That afternoon, I did something I’d been avoiding. I called our family lawyer, James Morella. He’d handled Robert’s estate when he died. Had known our family for twenty years.
“Roxanne, good to hear from you. What can I do for you?”
“James, I need to know about power of attorney. If someone has it for a family member, what can they do?”
“That depends on the type. Medical power of attorney covers health care decisions. Financial power of attorney covers assets, banking, that sort of thing. Is this about Tony?”
“Hypothetically. If Michelle has both types of power of attorney for Tony, could she…”
“Roxanne, what’s going on?”
I made a quick decision. “I need you to find out what legal authority Michelle has over Tony’s affairs, discreetly. Can you do that?”
A pause. “That’s a strange request. Please, James. I’ll explain everything when I can. But right now, I just need to know what she can and can’t do legally.”
“Give me a day or two. I’ll see what I can find.”
That evening, I drove to Tony and Michelle’s house again. This time, I’d called ahead, bringing dinner. Homemade lasagna, Tony’s favorite. Michelle couldn’t refuse without seeming suspicious. When she opened the door, her smile was strained.
“Roxanne, you didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”
“It’s no trouble at all. How’s my boy?”
“Having a rough day, actually. Maybe this isn’t the best…”
“Mom?” Tony’s voice came from down the hall.
“Is that you?” Michelle’s jaw tightened, but she stepped aside. I walked past her, carrying the lasagna toward the kitchen. Tony was in the living room, wheelchair positioned in front of the television.
When he saw me, his face lit up, and my heart broke. He looked terrible, thinner than last week, his skin pale, dark circles under his eyes.
“Sweetheart.” I set down the lasagna and hugged him carefully. He felt fragile, like he might break.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispered. “Mom, I need to talk to you about…”
“Tony, your medication.” Michelle appeared with a glass of water and a handful of pills. “It’s time.”
“I just took pills an hour ago,” Tony said, frowning.
“That was a different prescription. These are for the muscle spasms, remember?”
Tony looked confused. “I don’t remember taking anything earlier.”
“You did? Right after your nap?” Michelle’s voice was patient, but I caught the edge beneath it. “Come on, take these so we can eat Roxanne’s wonderful dinner.”
I watched as Tony obediently swallowed the pills. How many times a day was this happening? How many pills was he actually taking?
“Michelle, could you help me set the table?” I said brightly. “I brought garlic bread too. It’s in the car.”
“Of course.” She followed me to the kitchen, and I saw her glance back at Tony, assessing.
In the kitchen, I kept my voice light. “He seems more tired than last time I saw him.”
“The therapy is intense. Dr. Harrison is really pushing him to make progress.”
“That’s wonderful. When’s his next appointment? Maybe I could drive him, give you a break.”
“Oh, that’s sweet, but I have it handled. Thursday morning.”
“Same time as always?”
The briefest hesitation. “Yes. Ten o’clock.”
I smiled. “You’re such a devoted wife. Tony’s lucky to have you.”
While Michelle set the table, I excused myself to use the bathroom. Instead, I slipped into the bedroom. Their bedroom. My heart pounded as I quickly scanned the room.
On the nightstand, a plastic organizer with days of the week labeled. Each compartment filled with pills. I snapped a quick photo with my phone.
On the dresser, papers were stacked and waiting for filing. I rifled through them quickly. Medical bills. Insurance statements. And then, a bank statement. Not Tony and Michelle’s joint account. A different bank. An account in Michelle’s name only. I photographed the account number and the balance: $47,000.
“Roxanne? Did you get lost?” Michelle’s voice came from the hallway.
I shoved the papers back, my hands shaking. “Coming! Just freshening up.”
At dinner, I watched Michelle carefully portion Tony’s food. Cutting everything small. Treating him like a child. I watched her steer every conversation away from topics that might require Tony to remember specific details.
I watched her refill his water glass four times. Each time adding a powder she claimed was an electrolyte supplement. And I watched Tony grow increasingly drowsy as the meal progressed. His words slurring. His eyes struggling to focus.
“I think I need to lie down,” he finally said.
“Of course, honey.” Michelle was already standing. “Let me help you.”
“Mom, don’t go yet.” Tony reached for my hand. “Stay. Please.”
“I’ll stay right here. You rest and I’ll clean up.”
Michelle wheeled him toward the bedroom. At the doorway, she looked back at me. And for just a second, the mask slipped. What I saw wasn’t warmth or gratitude. It was cold calculation.
When she returned ten minutes later, I was washing dishes, playing the helpful mother-in-law.
“He’s out cold,” Michelle said. “The pain medication really knocks him out. Poor thing.”
“Michelle, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“The settlement check. When does it arrive?”
Her shoulders tensed slightly. “Soon. A few weeks, the lawyer said.”
“That must be such a relief. All those medical bills.”
“It is. Tony deserves it after everything he’s been through.”
I dried my hands and turned to face her. “And what happens after? Will he continue therapy? Will you move to a more accessible house?”
“We’re still figuring that out. Why all the questions?”
“I’m just trying to help. You’ve been carrying so much on your shoulders.”
Michelle’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I appreciate that, Roxanne. But we’re fine. Really.”
As I drove home that night, my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number. This is Detective Park. Did you get what we need?
I texted back the photos I’d taken. The pills, the bank statement. Her response came quickly. Good work. Keep your distance now. We’ll take it from here.
