Chapter 3 - THE COMPANY IN MY NAME
Forgery changes anger into something colder.
Martin knew it.
He backed away.
“I didn’t forge your name.”
“Then who did?”
He looked toward the stairs.
“Richard.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Convenient.”
“It’s true.”
“Why are you involved?”
“I thought it was temporary.”
“Temporary fraud?”
“Claire.”
“Try again.”
He sat.
I remained standing.
“I helped him set up the LLC because he said he was testing a private concierge practice.”
“Without telling me.”
“Yes.”
“Using my company.”
“Yes.”
“Using my credit.”
His silence answered.
My stomach turned.
“How much debt is attached to Whitmore Logistics?”
“None directly.”
“Directly.”
He looked down.
“There are guarantees.”
I stopped breathing.
“How much?”
“Potentially three million.”
My voice disappeared for a second.
Then returned.
“Three million dollars.”
“Yes.”
“And you never told me.”
“I thought Richard would repay it.”
“With what?”
Martin looked away.
“Investors.”
“What investors?”
He handed me another folder.
Names.
Private equity.
Two local hospital executives.
A pharmaceutical distributor.
And one name I recognized.
Alexis’s father.
Thomas Cole.
My employee.
I stared.
“He invested?”
Martin nodded.
“How much?”
“Five hundred thousand.”
That explained why Alexis knew nothing.
Her father was not simply my employee.
He had money in Richard’s secret operation.
“What exactly are they doing here?”
Martin hesitated.
“Trials.”
My skin went cold.
“Clinical trials?”
“Off-books monitoring.”
“For what?”
“Pain medication.”
“Approved?”
No answer.
I stepped closer.
“Martin.”
“Not all of it.”
I felt sick.
Richard had turned our old house into an unlicensed medical site.
Using my company as cover.
My signature.
My guarantees.
My money.
Then I heard footsteps upstairs.
A woman came down.
Late forties.
Scrubs.
She froze.
“Mrs. Whitmore.”
I stared.
“You know me.”
“Yes.”
“Who are you?”
“Dr. Naomi Perez.”
“Who pays you?”
She looked at Martin.
“Richard.”
“What are you doing here?”
Her face tightened.
“Trying to keep people safe.”
That answer scared me more than anything else.
“From what?”
She handed me a tablet.
Patient files.
Some names had red flags.
Adverse reactions.
Hospitalizations.
One death.
I stared.
“Someone died?”
Naomi nodded.
“Six months ago.”
“Why wasn’t this reported?”
“It was.”
“To who?”
She looked at me.
“Richard.”
My husband had known someone died in an illegal trial operating under my company’s name.
I sat down.
Then Naomi said:
“There’s another problem.”
“Of course.”
“The dead patient wasn’t random.”
I looked at her.
“Who was it?”
She swallowed.
“Martin’s sister.”
I turned.
Martin’s face broke.
My anger shifted.
“You knew.”
He nodded.
“And stayed?”
His eyes filled.
“Because I’m trying to prove Richard killed her.”
Silence.
He reached into his coat.
Pulled out a flash drive.
“This is why I helped keep the clinic running.”
I stared.
“To gather evidence?”
“Yes.”
“Against my husband?”
“Yes.”
Then he said:
“And Claire?”
“What?”
“Richard isn’t the person who started this.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who did?”
May you like
Martin looked toward the medical refrigerator.
“Your father.”
