D.W.
Daniel Whitmore.
My brother had known my directive existed.
When I confronted him that evening, he did not deny it.
He simply looked at me with an expression I could not read.
“Yes,” he said. “Elena told me.”
“Then why didn’t you find it?”
Daniel looked down.
“I did.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“You found it?”
“Yes.”
“Before you filed the petition?”
“No.”
He lifted his eyes.
“I found it the day after.”
I stared at him.
“And you continued anyway?”
Daniel’s face tightened.
“For forty-eight hours.”
“Why?”
His next words left the room silent.
“Because Gregory told me your directive might not matter if the court decided you had already lost capacity when you signed it.”
Rachel immediately spoke.
“But February eleventh was before the period of documented impairment.”
“I know that now.”
Daniel turned toward me.
“Arthur, that is why I stopped asking for permanent control.”
