We drove through the city without speaking.
Viktor sat beside me in the back seat while his driver took every shortcut available.
I kept calling the rehabilitation center.
No one answered.
Again.
Nothing.
Again.
Still nothing.
The fourth call connected.
A nurse answered in a trembling voice.
“Ms. Keller?”
“Where is my father?”
There was silence.
“Please tell me where he is.”
“We're trying to determine that.”
“Who took him?”
“We don't know.”
“You have security cameras.”
“Yes.”
“Then look at them.”
“They're being reviewed.”
“By whom?”
Another pause.
“Police.”
I looked at Viktor.
He shook his head.
Not police.
Not yet.
He took my phone.
“Describe the people who entered.”
The nurse hesitated.
“Who is this?”
“Viktor Reinhardt.”
The silence became longer.
Then the nurse whispered, “They showed identification.”
“What identification?”
“I don't know.”
“Did they say they were transferring the patient?”
“Yes.”
“To where?”
“I wasn't told.”
Viktor ended the call.
I grabbed the phone back.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to understand how they got him out.”
“They had identification.”
“Fake identification can get through a weak checkpoint.”
“This wasn't a weak checkpoint.”
“Then someone inside helped them.”
I looked out the window.
My father's last words came back to me.
If anyone asks about the accident, tell them you don't know anything.
He had known this could happen.
Maybe he had been waiting for it.
When we reached the rehabilitation center, two police cars were parked outside.
A security officer approached us.
Viktor showed his identification.
The officer's expression changed.
“You're Reinhardt?”
“Yes.”
“You need to come with us.”
Viktor didn't move.
“Why?”
“Your name came up in connection with the patient's records.”
I stepped forward.
“He's my father.”
The officer looked at me.
“Then you should understand why we need to ask questions.”
“Ask them.”
We entered.
The corridor looked exactly as it had the previous night.
That was the worst part.
The same beige walls.
The same handrails.
The same smell of disinfectant.
But my father's room was empty.
His blanket was folded.
His glasses remained on the bedside table.
His notebook from physical therapy was still open.
Someone had taken him carefully.
Not hurriedly.
Not violently.
I walked to the bed.
My fingers touched the pillow.
Still warm.
“When did they come?”
The nurse stood in the doorway.
“About forty minutes ago.”
“You said twenty.”
“I said the call came twenty minutes ago.”
“What happened before that?”
She swallowed.
“A man arrived with two others.”
“What did he look like?”
“Middle-aged. Gray hair.”
I turned toward Viktor.
He had gone pale.
“You know him.”
Viktor stared at the empty bed.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“My former partner.”
My heart stopped.
“You said he was dead.”
“He is.”
“Then who did she see?”
Viktor didn't answer.
The nurse interrupted.
“There was something else.”
“What?”
“The man asked about you.”
My blood ran cold.
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“What did he ask?”
“He asked whether you had visited your father that morning.”
“I hadn't.”
“He seemed disappointed.”
Viktor stepped closer.
“What exactly did he say?”
The nurse looked frightened.
“He said, ‘Then she has already found the case.’”
Neither of us spoke.
The case.
They knew.
They knew we had opened it.
I looked at Viktor.
“How?”
He stared at me.
“Someone was watching the house.”
“No.”
“What?”
“If they were watching the house, they would know we took the drive.”
His expression changed.
“You're right.”
I looked around the room.
Something felt wrong.
Not missing.
Moved.
I walked toward the desk.
A small plastic container sat beside the television.
It had been there yesterday.
I opened it.
Inside was my father's medication.
One bottle was missing.
I turned it over.
The label carried a code.
I remembered seeing the same code in his notebook.
I showed it to Viktor.
He took out his phone and photographed it.
“That's not medication.”
“What?”
“It is a treatment identifier.”
“What does that mean?”
“It tells a facility what protocol a patient is receiving.”
“So?”
“So someone changed your father's treatment records.”
“Why?”
“To make his disappearance look legitimate.”
I felt sick.
“This was planned.”
“Yes.”
“And someone at the center helped.”
“Yes.”
“Then who?”
Viktor looked at the security camera above the door.
“Maybe the camera did.”
We went to the security office.
The technician pulled up the footage.
At 9:14 a.m., a man entered the center.
Gray hair.
Dark coat.
I stared at the screen.
The image was grainy, but I knew the face.
It was Viktor's former partner.
Or someone who looked exactly like him.
The man spoke to the receptionist.
Then two others entered.
At 9:19, they moved toward my father's room.
At 9:24, they wheeled him out.
He was conscious.
He was sitting upright.
He looked directly at the camera.
I froze.
“Stop.”
The technician paused the footage.
My father was staring directly into the lens.
Not confused.
Not frightened.
Intentional.
“Go back five seconds.”
The footage moved.
My father lifted his right hand.
His fingers made a small movement.
Three taps against the wheelchair arm.
I knew that gesture.
He had taught it to me when I was a child.
Three taps meant pay attention.
I leaned toward the screen.
Then he moved his hand again.
Two taps.
Pause.
One tap.
I whispered the sequence.
“Three. Two. One.”
Viktor looked at me.
“What does it mean?”
“It was something we used when I was young.”
“For what?”
“When we wanted to warn each other without speaking.”
“What does three-two-one mean?”
“Danger. Leave.”
Viktor stared at the screen.
Then my father looked directly into the camera again.
His lips moved.
The footage had no audio.
But I could read them.
Anna.
Run.
I stepped back.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
No one spoke.
Then I heard my father's voice.
“Don't trust the man beside you.”
The call ended.
I looked at Viktor.
He had heard it.
His face was expressionless.
“Was that your father?”
“Yes.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Then they haven't killed him.”
“No.”
“But why would he tell you not to trust me?”
I didn't answer.
Because another thought had already entered my mind.
The voice sounded exactly like my father.
But the sentence didn't sound like him.
My father never called me by my first name when he was frightened.
He called me sweetheart.
Always.
Even when he was angry.
Even when he was exhausted.
The man on the phone had said Anna.
Coldly.
Like someone reading a line.
I looked at Viktor.
“That wasn't my father.”
His eyes narrowed.
“How do you know?”
“Because whoever called me knows my name.”
I looked back at the frozen security footage.
“And they want me to believe my father is speaking.”
Viktor nodded slowly.
“Then we're dealing with someone who knows both of us very well.”
The technician suddenly shouted.
“Wait.”
We turned.
He pointed at the screen.
A fourth person had entered the building.
A woman.
She wore a medical uniform.
She had entered ten minutes before the others.
She stopped outside my father's room.
Then she turned toward the camera.
I recognized her.
She had been the nurse who called me.
She looked directly into the lens.
Then she smiled.
The footage ended.
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: The Nurse Who Claimed She Was Frightened Had Been Waiting for Us, and Her Last Message Changed Everything We Believed About My Father
The Hundred-Dollar Bill That Was Meant to Humiliate Me Revealed Something Far More Dangerous Than Arrogance
Part 6 of 12
