Chapter 6 - Lakewood House
I called Lakewood House carefully.
Not accusing.
Not threatening.
Rachel handled most of the conversation.
Their director was professional and immediately concerned when she understood why we were calling.
Yes, someone had contacted them regarding possible postpartum admission for Clara Vance.
No, no admission had been finalized.
No, Lakewood had not evaluated Clara.
The inquiry was described as “future family-supported care in the event of psychiatric decompensation following delivery.”
Who made it?
Peter Salazar’s office.
My mother’s lawyer.
Supporting materials included selected prenatal notes, a family statement describing Clara as emotionally unstable, and a financial guarantee from JV Residential Services.
Julian again.
Rachel asked for preservation of everything.
The director agreed to cooperate through proper legal channels.
When I told Clara, she didn’t cry.
That scared me.
She simply stared through the hospital window.
“So that was the plan.”
“We don't know how far they intended to take it.”
“I do.”
I sat beside her.
“How?”
“Your mother kept saying I would finally get ‘real rest’ after the baby.”
She swallowed.
“She also said she would handle the nursery while I was away.”
My chest tightened.
“Clara…”
“She wasn’t planning to help me recover.”
“No.”
“She was planning to separate me from my baby.”
“We will not let that happen.”
She turned sharply.
“Don't promise things you can’t control.”
It hurt because she was right.
So I corrected myself.
“We will fight anything improper with evidence and proper legal process. And nobody is making decisions about your medical care without you unless a genuine medical emergency legally requires it.”
Her shoulders loosened slightly.
“Thank you.”
That was trust rebuilding in inches.
Then Rachel’s forensic team delivered another finding.
Julian had used my office scanner the morning I returned home.
He scanned three documents:
the altered trust draft,
a copy of Clara’s medical release,
and a letter bearing what appeared to be my signature.
The letter stated:
I support temporary residential treatment for my wife following delivery if my mother and family physician consider it necessary.
I had never signed it.
The signature was copied from an earlier corporate letter.
Forgery.
Clearer now.
The evidence went to counsel and law enforcement.
Nobody was arrested instantly because Rachel refused to confuse outrage with procedure.
But preservation orders were sought.
Accounts tied to suspected misuse were flagged.
My mother’s black card was canceled.
Julian’s access to company facilities and systems was suspended pending investigation.
Then Julian finally called.
“Sebastian, this is getting out of control.”
I put him on speaker with Rachel present.
“No,” I said. “It was out of control while I wasn’t looking.”
“Mom was trying to protect the family.”
“From Clara eating lunch?”
Silence.
“From Clara keeping her medical privacy?”
“It's complicated.”
“From my wife raising her own child?”
He exhaled.
“Sebastian, Mom is scared.”
“Of what?”
Another silence.
Then Julian said something I did not expect.
“Of you finding out why Dad really died.”
My entire body went still.
Our father had died nineteen years earlier.
Heart attack.
At least that was what I had always believed.
Rachel’s eyes lifted to mine.
“What does Dad have to do with any of this?”
Julian’s voice dropped.
May you like
“Ask Mom what happened to the original Vance family trust after his funeral.”
Then he hung up.
