Chapter 2 - The Paper Trail
Rain began to lash against the windshield as I merged into the late-night traffic, my hands gripping the steering wheel tight enough to whiten my knuckles. The three text messages sat on my phone screen like unexploded ordnance.
Instead of heading toward a hotel, I followed the address Dr. Collins sent five minutes later: a 24-hour diner tucked into an industrial stretch near St. Jude’s Memorial Clinic.
When I walked inside, the bell above the door chimed softly. A woman in a dark trench coat sat in the corner booth, clutching a paper coffee cup with trembling hands. Her hair was pulled back into a hasty bun, and her ID badge still hung loosely from her collar: Dr. Rebecca Collins, Internal Medicine.
"Mrs. Vale?" she whispered, looking past my shoulder as if expecting an entourage.
"Just Elena," I said, slipping into the vinyl seat across from her. I kept my coat zipped, my purse held firmly on my lap. "You said on the phone that Adrian was called under false pretenses."
Rebecca took a ragged breath and pulled a thick manila folder from her leather briefcase, sliding it across the laminate table. "I shouldn't be doing this. It violates patient confidentiality, company bylaws, everything I took an oath to uphold. But what they're doing isn't medicine. It’s extortion."
I opened the folder. Inside were duplicate charts, billing ledgers, and lab results bearing Serena Keller’s name.
"Serena claims to suffer from advanced cardiomyopathy," Rebecca explained, leaning in. "She claims the trauma of the accident six years ago—the one where her father died saving your husband—left her heart permanently weakened. That’s why Adrian rushes out whenever she calls. She fakes syncopal episodes. She tells him her heart is failing."
"Fakes them?" The word tasted bitter on my tongue. "Adrian has paid over four million dollars to your clinic over the last five years alone. I reviewed the household wire transfers."
"And ninety percent of that money went directly into a shell foundation managed by a board member named Harold Vance," Rebecca said, tapping a red stamp on the billing ledger. "Serena’s heart is completely healthy, Elena. She takes beta-blockers before calling Adrian to artificially lower her heart rate and turn her skin pale. But that’s not why I contacted you."
Rebecca leaned closer, her eyes dark with genuine terror.
"Serena isn’t just running a guilt scheme to keep Adrian on a leash. Her father didn't die saving Adrian from a burning car. He died trying to murder him."
A chill ran down my spine, sinking deep into my bones.
"What did you say?"
"Six years ago, Adrian’s brakes failed on Blackwood Pass," Rebecca said. "The police report claimed an oncoming truck swerved and Serena's father threw himself in the path to deflect the collision. But the clinic's internal archives hold the original toxicology and mechanical reports Vance buried. Her father was hired to run Adrian off the road. The 'rescue' was a catastrophic blunder when the brakes on both vehicles failed."
Before I could breathe, my phone buzzed on the table.
It was Adrian.
Elena, where are you? Serena had a collapse, but the doctors stabilized her. I’m heading back to the penthouse now. We need to talk about what you left on the dresser.
I looked up at Rebecca. "Who hired Serena’s father?"
May you like
Rebecca opened her mouth to speak, but the diner's front bell chimed again. A sleek black town car had just pulled up outside, its tinted windows reflecting the neon sign. Two men in dark suits stepped out, their eyes scanning the booths through the plate glass.
"They tracked my car," Rebecca gasped, her face draining of color. "Take the file. Go out through the kitchen. Now!"
