Chapter 7 - THE DEBT NATASHA NEVER UNDERSTOOD
Natasha laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because the alternative was screaming.
“My father has been dead for six years.”
Leonard Vale remained handcuffed to a chair inside Simon’s secure basement office.
“I know.”
Natasha stared at him.
Her father, Daniel Reynolds, had been an accountant.
Quiet.
Ordinary.
The kind of man who clipped grocery coupons despite earning enough money not to.
He had died in what police called a single-car accident outside Albany.
“What did he have to do with you?”
Vale looked at Simon.
“Protection.”
Simon leaned forward.
“You have five seconds.”
Vale finally explained.
Daniel Reynolds had not merely been an accountant.
For years, he had audited shell companies connected to medical networks secretly used to wash criminal money.
Eventually, he discovered something worse.
Vale and several partners were exploiting vulnerable patients to generate fraudulent insurance claims and hide financial transfers.
Daniel began collecting evidence.
Vanessa later found part of the same network.
Two strangers investigating the same machine years apart.
“Who ran it?” Natasha whispered.
Vale smiled.
“I was a doctor, not a king.”
Simon slammed a hand against the table.
“Name.”
“Richard Crestwood.”
Natasha froze.
Crestwood.
The restaurant where she had worked.
Crestwood House.
Vale laughed.
“You thought it was coincidence you got hired there?”
Natasha felt sick.
The restaurant had recruited her after she left the hospital.
Its owner had personally approved her application despite her lack of fine-dining experience.
Simon understood immediately.
“They were watching her.”
“For years,” Vale said.
“Why?”
“Daniel hid something before he died.”
Natasha shook her head.
“He never told me anything.”
“That’s why you were useful alive.”
Simon looked murderous.
“What were they waiting for?”
“For her to lead them to it.”
Natasha remembered her father's final belongings.
A watch.
Old tax records.
A piano metronome.
And sheet music.
Dozens of pages of sheet music.
Her father did not play piano.
She suddenly stood.
“My storage unit.”
Simon followed.
“What?”
“I kept his boxes in Queens.”
Within an hour, they were inside a dusty storage facility under heavy security.
Natasha found the box.
The sheet music was exactly where she remembered.
Simon looked at it.
“I can't read music.”
“I can.”
Natasha spread the pages across the floor.
Something was wrong.
Certain notes repeated unnaturally.
Triplets.
Again.
Three.
Three.
Two.
Vanessa's code.
Natasha stared.
“My father used rhythmic notation as encryption.”
They photographed the pages and ran the sequences through software.
A list emerged.
Accounts.
Names.
Payments.
Hospitals.
Judges.
Corporate executives.
The operation was far larger than Vale.
Then Simon noticed a recent entry.
“Crestwood Foundation.”
Natasha looked up.
The foundation funded pediatric neurological programs throughout New York.
Including Sophie's hospital.
Including Vanessa's specialist.
Including the twins' doctors.
Simon immediately ordered independent physicians to review every medication the twins had received.
Hours later, one physician called.
The news was devastating.
The babies' current symptoms might have been prolonged by a medication prescribed after birth.
Not enough to cause obvious poisoning.
Enough to keep them symptomatic.
Someone had been intentionally preventing them from recovering.
Natasha sat beside the cribs that night and cried silently.
Simon found her there.
“I should've noticed.”
“No.”
“I’m supposed to understand this.”
“You understood what everyone else missed.”
She looked at him.
“What?”
“That they needed to feel safe.”
Simon sat beside her.
For once, neither spoke.
Then Natasha rested her head against his shoulder.
Simon did not move.
Minutes passed.
His hand slowly covered hers.
“I don't know what happens when this is over,” Natasha whispered.
His thumb moved across her knuckles.
“I do.”
She lifted her head.
Simon looked at her.
“I want you to stay.”
“For the twins?”
His eyes dropped briefly to her lips.
“Not only for them.”
Their faces moved closer.
Then Marcus burst through the door.
“Simon.”
They separated.
Marcus looked grim.
“Crestwood knows we found the ledger.”
“How?”
“Vale escaped during transport.”
Simon stood.
Marcus continued.
“And Crestwood just sent a message.”
He handed Simon a phone.
There was a photograph on the screen.
Anthony's daughter.
Bound to a chair.
May you like
Beneath it were six words.
BRING NATASHA OR THE GIRL DIES.
