Chapter 3 - The Double Fee
By 6:00 PM, Dr. Mensah had cleared me for limited mobility under strict supervision. The necrotic tissue on my heel had been surgically debrided—a painful procedure that left my foot bound in heavy vacuum-assisted dressings—but the systemic poison had been neutralized by continuous IV chelating agents.
Tristan’s legal team had filed an emergency injunction with the BC Supreme Court to prevent me from leaving the hospital, claiming I was a danger to myself. But they hadn't reckoned on Detective Miller.
Because the toxicology report matched a regulated chemical subject to federal importation tracking, Miller had opened an active criminal investigation for attempted murder with a dangerous weapon. An active criminal warrant superseded any civil guardianship petition.
I sat in a wheelchair in a private consultation room on the sixth floor, wearing a oversized grey sweatshirt and sweatpants Miller’s partner had bought for me at a department store across the street.
My personal phone—the one Tristan thought he had disabled by suspending my family cell plan—lay on the table between us. I had pulled out a secondary burner phone I’d hidden inside my child’s specialized medical equipment bag six months prior, back when Tristan’s mood swings first started turning into covert threats.
“He thinks he holds all the cards because he controls the traditional financial channels,” I said to Miller and his partner, Detective Sandra Cruz. “He canceled my primary credit cards forty-five minutes ago. I got the automated text alerts on my backup line.”
“He’s systematically cutting off your access to food, transport, and legal counsel,” Cruz observed, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. “Classic isolation tactic, but escalated to a lethal degree.”
“Then we turn it against him,” I said.
I picked up the burner phone and dialed a local Vancouver number I had memorized from an investigative report on specialized home-care services I’d read weeks ago.
The call connected on the second ring.
“Pacific Senior and Private Care Logistics,” a sharp, professional female voice answered. “How may I assist you?”
“I need an immediate private care assignment,” I said, my voice cold and steady. “For a private residence in the West End. Coal Harbour area.”
“We currently have a waiting list for non-emergency home health aides, ma'am. Our intake process takes forty-eight hours—”
“I don't need a top-tier registered nurse,” I interrupted, using the precise phrasing I knew would trigger their regulatory flags. “I need a low-tier, contract-level attendant for an aggressive patient who requires twenty-four-hour physical monitoring and strict behavioral containment. Someone who doesn't ask questions about non-compliance or raised voices.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line.
“Ma'am, our agency provides licensed, compassionate care—”
“I know what your lowest-rated sub-contractors are,” I said flatly. “You keep a list of probationary caregivers who are one complaint away from losing their state certifications—people who are willing to take hard shifts for high risk. I want the lowest-rated, most rigid, unyielding caretaker on your roster. The one with the highest rate of patient non-compliance complaints for being overly punitive.”
“Why would you request that?” the intake director asked, her voice dropping an octave.
“Because my husband is currently trying to exit his temporary residence to destroy evidence,” I said, looking straight at Detective Miller, who gave me a slow, approving nod. “I am paying your agency out-of-pocket using an offshore escrow account that he cannot freeze. I will pay double your highest premium rate—four thousand dollars a day—if you dispatch your most ruthless caregiver to that apartment within thirty minutes, backed by an official medical containment order issued by Dr. Mensah’s department.”
The woman on the phone cleared her throat. “A court-ordered medical containment monitor?”
“Dr. Mensah has just signed a public health quarantine flag for the penthouse unit due to toxicological exposure risks,” I said. “My husband was exposed to the same organophosphate compound. He is a biological vector until cleared by public health. Send your worst attendant to keep him inside that door until the police execute their search warrant.”
There was a silence for three long seconds.
“We have an independent contractor,” the voice finally replied. “A former correctional health officer named Mrs. Agatha Vance—no relation to you, I presume. She has a zero-tolerance policy for patient non-compliance. Her rates are double standard.”
“Send her,” I said. “And tell her that if Tristan Vance tries to step foot outside that front door before the police arrive, she has full authority under the emergency quarantine protocol to use physical restraints.”
I hung up the phone and looked at Miller.
May you like
“The search warrant for his Coal Harbour apartment will take two hours to process through the duty judge,” Miller said, pulling out his gloves. “Are you sure that home care attendant can hold him?”
I smiled, though there was no joy in it. “Tristan spent ten years stepping on everyone he considered beneath him because he thought money made him untouchable. He’s about to find out what happens when you put a former prison guard in charge of a billionaire who thinks he’s above the law.”
