He tried to stand. His legs gave out.
He grabbed the edge of the tablecloth and pulled. Glasses, plates, and half the food came crashing down.
“Call 911!” someone shouted behind them. Adam slid to the floor. His eyes rolled back.
His wife screamed. Stroke. Major.
The right side was paralyzed. The EMTs worked fast. Gurney, IV line, siren.
The restaurant emptied in twenty minutes. Gregory stood on the front steps watching the ambulance pull away. Marina came up beside him with Annie.
“You okay?” she asked. He didn’t answer at first. He stood with his hands in his coat pockets, looking at the road.
“I didn’t want that,” he said finally. “I know.” “No, you don’t.”
“I wanted him to answer me. I wanted him to tell me why. Now he won’t. Maybe he can’t.”
They stood there in silence. Annie slept. After that, everything moved fast, the way floodwater does after building behind a dam for weeks.
Linda Parker turned out not to be just a strip-mall lawyer. She was a former prosecutor, retired, still sharp, still competitive, and apparently unable to resist a fight like this. She had the case moving in ten days: complaint filed, medical review, doctor questioned. The doctor—a young surgeon from the private clinic—folded in the first interview. He told them everything, turned over the messages with Adam, and named the price: $25,000.
He was charged and released pending trial. The death certificate was voided, the estate case was shut down, and the company was legally restored to Gregory.
In practice, though, a month without the owner had been enough for the accountant and operations manager to siphon off $175,000 from company accounts. Gregory hired an auditor and began untangling the mess. But before any of that, he did something else.
He came to Marina’s abandoned house one last time. She was packing: Annie’s sleepers, bottles, a bag of clothes. There wasn’t much to pack.
“I bought you a condo,” Gregory said. “Two bedrooms. It’s in your name.” Marina looked up. “Why?”
