Suddenly, my exhaustion and concentration problems seemed more concerning.
Dr. Reeves asked whether I’d recently visited a private clinic.
“Yes. My husband arranged an examination.”
“Was the physician named Adrian Cole?”
My breath caught.
“How did you know?”
He opened a file.
“My laboratory has worked with organizations connected to that facility.”
Then he turned his computer toward me.
There was my name.
My address.
My birth date.
And beneath them, two words:
RESEARCH PARTICIPANT.
“I never volunteered for medical research,” I whispered.
According to the records, however, I’d been enrolled in an experimental program investigating biological processes associated with aging.
The clinic had attached consent forms bearing my signature.
I remembered Daniel telling me they were routine documents.
“His company is listed as one of the financial backers,” Dr. Reeves explained.
I felt overwhelmed.
My husband hadn’t simply arranged medical examinations.
He was connected to a research program I hadn’t knowingly agreed to join.
Then Dr. Reeves’ telephone rang.
