Chapter 23 Unanswered Questions
Rowan
I don’t research people out of concern.
I research them to understand what they cost me.
It’s just after nine when I pull up the rehab center’s website on my tablet, jacket off, tie loosened, city lights bleeding through the windows of my penthouse. Violet left on time tonight. That alone is unusual enough to stick with me.
Evergreen Rehabilitation Center.
The name is deliberately harmless. Soft. Reassuring. The kind of place meant to suggest stability while charging by the day.
The website loads slowly.
That’s the first thing I note.
Outdated design. Generic stock photos. Testimonials that sound like they were written by the same person with different names attached. Not damning on its own—but it’s sloppy. Sloppy places cut corners.
I scroll.
East side location. Not the worst neighborhood, but not insulated either. Security listed as “on-site staff.” No mention of overnight monitoring beyond nurses. No locked wing. No specialized neurological unit.
Yet they advertise post-stroke care.
I don’t like inconsistencies.
I pull up public records next. Inspections. Staffing ratios. Medicare complaints.
There it is.
A flagged report from eight months ago. Understaffing during evening shifts. Two patient falls in the same quarter. No major penalties. Fines paid. Issue “corrected.”
Corrected is a flexible word.
I tap my pen against the desk and keep reading.
Another note. Six months ago. A patient altercation. No serious injuries. Family declined to press charges.
Violence, then.
That tracks.
I lean back slightly and consider what Violet didn’t say.
She didn’t ask to leave early.
She didn’t ask for flexibility.
She didn’t ask for help.
She handled the calls. She stayed. She left on time and still went across town.
That tells me more than anything the website can.
I pick up my phone and dial the number listed for Evergreen.
It rings twice.
“Evergreen Rehabilitation, this is Karen,” a woman answers. Tired voice. Professional. Guarded.
“This is Rowan Ashcroft,” I say calmly. “I’m calling regarding a patient under your care. Margaret Pierce.”
Silence, brief but deliberate.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Karen says carefully. “I can’t disclose patient information.”
“I’m not asking for medical records,” I reply. “I’m asking if she’s stable.”
“I can’t confirm or deny—”
“I’m paying her bills,” I interrupt.
Another pause.
“I still can’t—”
“I’m not interested in policy,” I say. “I’m interested in whether my employee’s mother is being adequately cared for.”
Her breath hitches slightly. I can hear the calculation.
“I’m sorry,” she repeats. “Unless you’re immediate family—”
I smile faintly.
“Karen,” I say, voice lowering. “I’m going to make this very simple. I can either escalate this through legal channels, or I can make it worth your time to answer a few questions.”
Silence stretches.
“How much?” she asks quietly.
There it is.
I name a number.
She exhales sharply. “That’s… unnecessary.”
“Is it?” I reply.
Another beat.
“Hold, please.”
The line goes quiet.
When she comes back, her voice is different. Less formal. More human.
“Her condition is… complicated,” Karen says. “She suffered multiple strokes over a short period of time. Three, actually. Within a month.”
I close my eyes briefly.
“She requires twenty-four-hour supervision,” Karen continues. “There are periods where she’s lucid. Others where she doesn’t recognize staff. Or herself.”
“And violent behavior?” I ask.
Karen hesitates. “Occasionally. When she’s disoriented.”
“Tonight,” I say.
“Yes,” she admits. “She threw objects. Demanded to see her son.”
Not Violet.
I file that away.
“She was asking for him,” Karen adds. “Not your employee.”
I don’t respond.
“It’s… unusual,” Karen continues, voice quieter now, “because he used to come weekly. Paid in cash. Never missed a visit.”
Weekly. Cash.
My jaw tightens.
“And now?” I ask.
“And now he hasn’t shown up in over a month,” she says. “Which raised some concerns. Especially since Ms. Pierce hasn’t mentioned—”
She stops herself.
“Mentioned what?” I prompt.
“Nothing,” she says quickly. “Just… families handle things differently.”
“Did Violet tell you her brother was dead?” I ask.
Silence.
“No,” Karen says softly. “She didn’t.”
That confirms it.
“Thank you,” I say. “You’ve been very helpful.”
I hang up before she can respond.
I sit there for a long moment, staring at the city, letting the pieces arrange themselves.
Three strokes.
Violence.
Cash payments.
A brother who disappears.
A detective who pushes too hard.
A woman who doesn’t miss work even when her life is burning down.
This is deeper than I thought.
I grab my phone again and call Theo.
He answers on the third ring. “This better be good. I was halfway into a drink.”
“I need a favor,” I say.
A pause. “That tone means it’s about Violet.”
I don’t lie to my brother.
“Yes.”
Theo exhales slowly. “Alright. What’s going on?”
“Her mother’s in rehab,” I say. “Multiple strokes. Needs full-time care. Her brother used to pay weekly. In cash.”
Theo goes quiet.
“And now he’s dead,” he says.
“Yes.”
“And the rehab found that suspicious,” he adds.
“Yes.”
Theo sighs. “You think he was into something.”
“I think he was involved in something,” I correct. “And I want to know what.”
“How deep?” Theo asks.
“Deep enough that his absence is noticed,” I reply. “Deep enough that his sister is being leaned on by police.”
Another pause.
“I still have that contact,” Theo says finally. “Private investigator. Discreet. Expensive.”
“I’ll cover it,” I say.
“I figured,” he mutters. “You sure about this?”
“No,” I reply honestly. “But I’m sure I don’t like unanswered questions.”
Theo exhales. “I’ll make the call.”
“Good.”
“And Rowan?” he adds.
“Yes.”
“This isn’t just about work anymore.”
I stare out at the lights again.
“I know,” I say.
That’s the problem.
“Theo,” I say finally. “I need your opinion.”
He doesn’t answer right away.
That alone tells me how unusual this is.
“You don’t ask for opinions,” he says carefully.
“I’m asking now.”
Another pause. Then, quieter, “About what?”
“Violet.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s been expecting that name.
“Alright,” Theo says. “What about her?”
“I don’t know how far to intervene,” I admit. The words taste foreign. “Her situation is bleeding into work. Not because she lets it—but because the pressure around her is increasing.”
“She’s handling it,” Theo says immediately.
“I know,” I reply. “That’s the problem.”
Theo hums under his breath. “You’re worried she’s going to break.”
“I’m worried she won’t,” I correct. “People like that don’t stop until something forces them to.”
Silence stretches.
“She won’t ask for help,” Theo says. “Even if she needs it.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“And she won’t forgive herself if she slips,” he adds. “Even once.”
I lean back, staring at the ceiling. “So what do I do?”
Theo laughs softly. Not mocking. Understanding.
“You give her structure,” he says. “Clear expectations. No ambiguity. She thrives on knowing where she stands.”
“That’s it?” I ask. “Structure?”
“And consistency,” he adds. “You don’t hover. You don’t soften. You just… stay.”
I close my eyes.
That’s exactly what I’ve been doing.