CHAPTER 6 — THE PETITION
The psychiatrist’s name was Dr. Stephen Vale.
He practiced from a private clinic in Westbridge, charged nine hundred dollars for an initial consultation, and had sworn under penalty of perjury that I suffered from paranoid delusions, compulsive spending, emotional volatility, and an “escalating fixation on hidden financial conspiracies.”
He described my paintings as evidence of fragmentation.
He described my refusal to surrender the east wing as pathological territoriality.
He described the bruise on my face as self-inflicted.
The affidavit was eight pages long.
Every page was a map of a woman I had never been.
I read it in the back seat while Daniel drove downtown.
Miriam sat beside me, making calls with the controlled fury of a surgeon whose operating room had been contaminated.
“Get me the judge’s chambers,” she said into her phone. “No, I do not want voicemail. A sworn medical affidavit appears fraudulent, and the order was entered without notice despite active counsel. Yes, I understand the hour. So does perjury.”
She ended the call and immediately placed another.
“Freeze nothing voluntarily,” she told one of my trustees. “The order is narrow. Preserve all existing positions. No distributions beyond ordinary expenses. And do not speak to Richard Monroe or Malcolm Saye under any circumstances.”
I looked out at the city lights.
Richard had planned this before the assault.
The legal documents were too complete, the affidavit too detailed, the judge too quickly available. He had not lost control and then searched for a weapon.
He had built the weapon first.
“Which judge signed it?” I asked.
“Eleanor Vance.”
“Do you know her?”
“I know of her. Probate background. Reputation for caution.”
“She signed an emergency order based on a doctor I never met.”
“She signed based on sworn evidence presented by officers of the court. Judges are permitted to rely on affidavits. That trust is exactly what Saye abused.”
“Can we reverse it?”
“Yes.”
“How fast?”
“Hearing at nine tomorrow morning.”
“That fast?”
“I may have suggested that the local newspaper would find the affidavit interesting.”
I turned toward her.
“You threatened a judge?”
“I informed chambers that public records are public.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
The apartment above the Alden Building’s twelfth floor had once been my father’s private retreat. He used it during snowstorms, late negotiations, and the final months of his illness when the commute home exhausted him.
Richard had never been there.
The space was simple: oak floors, white walls, a kitchen designed by someone who actually cooked, and broad windows overlooking the river. My father’s old reading chair remained beside the glass.
Marisol arrived twenty minutes after us with two suitcases and a garment bag.
“You should not have come,” I told her.
“I no longer work for Mr. Monroe.”
“You never did.”
“He believed I did.”
She placed the luggage in the bedroom.
“I resigned by email. I copied Ms. Holt.”
Miriam nodded. “A model of clarity.”
“What did you write?” I asked.
Marisol’s mouth almost curved.
“I wrote that I would not accept payment to conceal violence or participate in the unlawful removal of property.”
Richard would hate the word unlawful.
He preferred misunderstandings.
At 11:34, Apprentice arrived carrying a laptop and a paper bag of food no one had requested. He studied my face, then the petition.
“This is aggressive,” he said.
“That is your professional assessment?” Miriam asked.
“My unprofessional assessment would create unnecessary profanity.”
He opened his laptop at the dining table.
“Dr. Stephen Vale has an interesting practice. Eighty percent of his court work involves capacity affidavits. He has testified for Malcolm Saye in fourteen cases.”
“Outcomes?” Miriam asked.
“Eleven temporary guardianships. Seven later dissolved. In three cases, assets were sold during the temporary period.”
“Complaints?”
“Two sealed. One withdrawn.”
“Payments from Richard?” I asked.
“Not directly.”
“From Beatrice?”
“Not directly.”
“From the foundation?”
Apprentice looked at me.
“Possibly. One of Dr. Vale’s research nonprofits received a seventy-five-thousand-dollar Harwick grant last year.”
Miriam removed her glasses.
“There it is.”
“Not enough,” Apprentice said. “Grant funding does not prove a purchased affidavit.”
“What proves it?”
“Communication, scheduling records, payment instructions, metadata, or someone becoming frightened.”
Miriam turned to Marisol.
“Did anyone visit the house representing himself as a doctor?”
“No.”
“Did Richard ask you questions about Victoria’s behavior?”
“Yes. Repeatedly.”
“What questions?”
“Whether she forgot meals. Whether she wandered at night. Whether she broke objects. Whether she spoke to people who were not there.”
I felt cold despite the warm apartment.
“What did you say?”
“That none of those things happened.”
“Did he ask you to sign anything?”
“He gave me a statement yesterday.”
“Where is it?”
“I left it in my room at the estate.”
Miriam swore softly.
“Can anyone retrieve it?”
“The house is under private security,” I said. “The police did not seal staff areas.”
Daniel offered to go.
“No,” Miriam said. “Richard may return. We request a supervised retrieval in the morning.”
Apprentice typed for several minutes.
“The petition also claims Victoria transferred one hundred thousand dollars to an unknown man.”
Everyone looked at me.
“I paid Apprentice’s firm,” I said.
“Exactly,” he replied. “They have identified my retainer but not my role. In their narrative, it becomes impulsive spending or perhaps an affair.”
“Can we reveal the investigation?”
Miriam shook her head. “Not fully. We show legitimate professional services under privilege. We do not disclose the foundation inquiry unless necessary.”
I walked to the window.
Below us, traffic moved in narrow streams of red and white light. From twelve floors up, every car looked certain of its direction.
“What if the judge believes him?”
“Then we appeal,” Miriam said.
“What happens meanwhile?”
“The temporary restrictions remain.”
“And Richard?”
“He may seek authority over ordinary household expenses, claim access to records, and ask the court to appoint a neutral fiduciary.”
“Neutral chosen by Malcolm Saye.”
“Likely.”
The trap was elegant.
If I fought loudly, I was unstable.
If I remained calm, I lacked appropriate emotional response.
If I discussed the hidden ledger, I was paranoid.
If I refused to discuss it, I was secretive.
Richard had built a case in which every door opened into the same locked room.
My father’s voice returned.
Check what’s holding it up.
“What is holding the petition up?” I asked.
Miriam understood immediately.
“The doctor’s affidavit.”
“And beneath that?”
“Richard’s factual declaration.”
“And beneath that?”
“Household observations, financial claims, and alleged urgency.”
“So we remove the supports one at a time.”
Apprentice nodded. “Medical fraud. Financial legitimacy. Witness contradiction. Timing.”
“Timing?”
“The petition was drafted before the incident,” he said. “I can prove that from the PDF metadata if we obtain the original electronic filing.”
Miriam’s eyes sharpened.
“How early?”
“Possibly three weeks.”
The room became quiet.
If the petition was drafted before Richard hit me, then his claim that the assault accusation triggered emergency concern would collapse. More importantly, it would show planning.
“Get it,” Miriam said.
“I already requested it.”
At 1:10 a.m., we finally ate the food Apprentice had brought. It was cold Chinese takeout. Marisol found plates. Daniel checked the locks. Miriam made notes in the margins of the petition with a red pen.
No one told me to sleep.
At 2:22, my primary phone received a text from Richard.
RICHARD: I love you. You are sick. Please let me help before you destroy your life.
A second message followed.
RICHARD: Come home and we can make this disappear.
Then a photograph.
My blue-door painting lay broken across the studio floor. Someone had cut the canvas from top to bottom.
I stared at the image until my vision narrowed.
Miriam reached for the phone.
“Do not respond.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
But my hands were shaking now.
Not because of the painting alone.
Because Richard had returned to the house after police supervision ended. Private security should have stopped him. Unless the person guarding the property had been persuaded, overruled, or replaced.
Apprentice enlarged the photograph.
“There,” he said.
In the lower corner, reflected in a shard of broken frame glass, stood a man wearing a police uniform.
Captain Brandt.
At 8:45 the next morning, we entered Probate Courtroom Four.
Richard sat at the petitioner’s table in a charcoal suit. Beatrice sat behind him wearing navy wool and pearls. Malcolm Saye stood beside them with a stack of binders and the calm smile of a man who billed by the hour for rearranging reality.
Dr. Stephen Vale was present.
He looked exactly like his professional photograph: silver beard, rimless glasses, compassionate forehead.
When I entered, he gave me a small clinical nod.
As though we had met.
Judge Eleanor Vance took the bench at nine.
Miriam began with the affidavit.
“Your Honor, the central medical evidence supporting this emergency order is fabricated. My client has never met Dr. Vale, never spoken to him, and never authorized an evaluation.”
Saye rose. “Dr. Vale conducted three telehealth consultations.”
“No,” I said.
Miriam touched my arm without looking at me.
The judge turned to Dr. Vale.
“Doctor, did you personally evaluate Ms. Alden?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“When?”
He gave three dates.
On the first date, I had been in Boston opening an exhibition.
On the second, I had attended a trust meeting with twelve witnesses.
On the third, I had been asleep in my own house while Richard sat in the adjoining room.
Dr. Vale produced appointment notes.
Miriam produced travel records, meeting minutes, and security logs.
Then she asked for the telehealth platform records.
Saye objected.
The judge overruled him.
Dr. Vale’s confidence shifted.
The consultations had not occurred through his clinic platform, he explained. They had taken place by private video link at Richard’s request.
“Did you verify the patient’s identity?” Miriam asked.
“I was assured by her husband.”
“Did the woman on the screen show identification?”
“No.”
“Did you record the sessions?”
“No.”
“Then it is possible you evaluated someone pretending to be Victoria Alden.”
Dr. Vale looked toward Saye.
That glance was enough to change the room.
Miriam continued.
“Who arranged the calls?”
“Mr. Monroe.”
“Who paid you?”
“My fee was paid through counsel.”
“Which counsel?”
Dr. Vale swallowed.
“Mr. Saye’s office.”
The judge removed her glasses.
For the first time, Malcolm Saye stopped smiling.
The hearing lasted three hours.
Marisol testified by video about Richard’s questions, his offer of paid leave, and the sounds she heard from the bedroom. Dr. Patel authenticated my injuries. Apprentice’s retainer was explained as legitimate investigative work connected to suspected financial misconduct, though details remained under seal.
Then the court clerk delivered the original electronic petition file.
Its metadata showed it had been created twenty-six days earlier.
Long before the bruise.
Long before the hidden wall.
Long before Richard claimed an emergency.
Judge Vance dissolved the temporary financial restrictions. She ordered Dr. Vale’s affidavit referred to the medical board and state prosecutor. She prohibited Richard from accessing trust records and directed that neither he nor Beatrice enter the estate without written permission.
But she did not dismiss the case entirely.
“I am deeply troubled by the apparent misconduct,” she said. “I am also concerned by allegations of escalating conflict and substantial hidden financial activity. I will appoint an independent evaluator chosen by the court, not either party.”
Miriam objected.
The judge held up one hand.
“This protects your client as much as anyone. If she is competent, the finding will eliminate further misuse of this process.”
The evaluation was scheduled for Monday.
Outside the courtroom, reporters had already gathered.
Richard moved toward me before security stopped him.
“You think you won?” he said.
I looked at his perfect tie, his perfect hair, the small tremor in his left hand.
“No,” I said. “I think you lied badly.”
Beatrice stood behind him.
For once, her pearls did not make her look powerful.
They looked like a row of small white teeth.
Miriam guided me toward the elevator.
Then a woman stepped out from behind a courthouse column.
She was around thirty-five, thin, dark-haired, and visibly terrified. A scar ran from her left temple into her hairline.
“Victoria Alden?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“My name is Claire Donnelly.”
Richard’s face went white.
Claire looked past me at him.
Then she handed me a sealed envelope.
“I was engaged to your husband six years ago,” she said. “And you need to know what happened to the last woman who told him no.”
May you like
END OF CHAPTER 6
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