Evelyn met my eyes. “Not if we hit back smarter,” she said.
Then she opened her laptop and said the words I’d been dreading and craving at the same time:
“It’s time to contact law enforcement—not as a threat. As a shield.”
Two detectives arrived that evening—quiet, plainclothes, the kind of people who didn’t announce themselves with drama. One introduced herself as Detective Rena Patel. The other, Detective Miles Carter. They didn’t treat me like a dying woman telling a story. They treated me like a witness with a timeline.
Evelyn played the recording of my sworn statement. She showed them Brandon’s texts. Priya handed over her documented notes: the complaint he filed, the demand to remove her, the attempted access to my chart. Dr. Callahan provided his capacity documentation.
Detective Patel’s expression didn’t change much until Evelyn mentioned the “patient advocate” who wasn’t real.
“That’s impersonation,” Patel said simply. “And it suggests intent.”
My voice shook, but I kept it clear. “He said seventy-two hours,” I told them. “Like he’d already scheduled my death.”
Carter leaned forward. “Did he have access to your medications?”
“He tried,” Priya said, calm but furious. “And he tried to change staff.”
Patel nodded slowly. “We can’t arrest someone for being cruel,” she said, “but we can investigate coercion, fraud attempts, patient interference, and impersonation. And we can advise the hospital on security escalation.”
Evelyn slid another document forward. “We also filed an emergency motion to block his petition for temporary control,” she said. “With supporting evidence.”
Patel glanced at the paperwork, then at me. “Do you feel safe if he returns?”
I didn’t hesitate. “No.”
That one word felt like snapping a chain.
Within an hour, Northwestern security updated my status: no visitors without PIN verification. A uniformed officer was placed outside the ICU corridor—not to make a scene, but to make a statement. Brandon couldn’t simply “walk in” and take over the story anymore.
At 8:16 p.m., my phone buzzed again—unknown number.
YOU THINK COPS CAN SAVE YOU?
Then a second message came through, and my stomach dropped:
I’LL SEE YOU BEFORE THE CLOCK RUNS OUT.
Detective Patel read it over my shoulder. She didn’t flinch. She simply said, “Good. That’s a threat. Screenshot it. We’ll add it.”
Evelyn leaned close to me, voice low. “You wanted to take him with you,” she murmured. “You just did it the right way. Paper. Witnesses. Timelines. No heroics.”
I stared at the ceiling, breath shallow. My body still fought its own battle, independent of Brandon’s schemes. But for the first time since he whispered that smug countdown, I felt something like control settle back into my hands.
Not revenge.
Protection.
A door opened softly and Mateo stepped in, eyes wet. “The board voted,” he whispered. “Unanimous. Brandon is suspended from all company involvement pending investigation.”
I closed my eyes, not to hide—just to let the relief move through me without breaking me apart.
Because Brandon wanted my death to be a transfer.
Instead, it became evidence.
And if I didn’t survive, he wouldn’t inherit my silence.
If you’re reading this, tell me: Would you have gone straight to police the moment you heard his “72 hours,” or built the legal wall first like Sloane did? And in your opinion, what’s more powerful against someone like Brandon—public exposure, or quiet airtight documentation?
