Chapter 8 - The Signature
Maya reached for the phone, but Ortiz stopped her. “Don't touch the screen. Let me record this.”
The video had been sent from an unknown number six minutes earlier. It replayed the same frantic ten seconds: Claire in the hospital bed, eyes shut, and Ethan shouting. No one else appeared.
Maya checked the timestamp. “Claire's asleep. We would've heard if someone got into her room.”
Ortiz called the hospital. A nurse confirmed that Claire and Ethan were both there, with no visitors. The clip had been assembled from separate pieces of footage: Claire filmed through the observation window, Ethan's voice taken from the terrace.
“Somebody's trying to scare us into handing over the folder,” Ortiz said.
“And they can't find it either,” Maya answered.
At the hospital, Ethan sat beside Claire's bed with the printed bank transfer in his lap. Sloane had emailed it to him after the police arrived. He had spent an hour hoping it was fake.
Claire woke to the sound of paper crumpling. “What is that?”
He hesitated. “A transfer I approved.”
“How much?”
“Eighteen point four million.”
She stared at him. “You told me the Cedar Point fund was protected.”
“I thought it was.”
“You thought?” Her voice rose. “People moved into those apartments because you told them the buildings were safe.”
“Sloane said it was a temporary loan, seventy-two hours, just until the investors closed.”
“Did you read what you signed?”
Ethan looked down.
Claire shook her head. “There it is.”
“I didn't know she was stealing.”
“You knew enough not to ask questions.”
It hurt because she was right. Ethan had built Bennett Development from the wreckage of his father's contracting business. He had believed that hiring professionals meant he could stop watching every dollar. But he had also loved how convenient ignorance felt.
“I'll give Ortiz everything,” he said.
“Then start with the truth, even if it ruins you.”
A knock sounded at the door. Dr. Singh entered, her expression carefully neutral.
May you like
“Claire, your contractions are picking up again,” she said. “And I need to ask something else. Who gave you the pain medication for your ankle this afternoon?”
Claire blinked. “Sloane did. Why?”
