Chapter 10 - The Package at the Door
The drive back to our downtown Chicago condo took forty-five minutes through the heavy evening traffic.
The city lights were just beginning to blink on through the rain-streaked windows of my car, casting long, blurred reflections across the wet asphalt. My mind was racing, turning over the details of Richard's surgery, the timing of the anonymous ethics complaint, and the sudden, aggressive maneuver by Arthur Sterling and the hospital board.
An anonymous complaint filed within hours of the accident.
Only a handful of people knew about the brunch altercation at the Reynolds Country Club. Only family members, close relatives, and a few senior executives had witnessed Barbara's condescension and my silent departure.
Which meant the complaint hadn't come from a random observer. It had come from inside the family.
I pulled my car into the underground parking garage of our building, cut the engine, and sat in the dark silence for a long moment, letting the heavy thrum of exhaustion finally catch up to me. I unlocked my door, rode the elevator up to the penthouse level, and walked down the quiet hallway toward our door.
As I reached for my keys, I noticed a large, heavy manila envelope taped directly to our front door.
There was no postage. No return address.
Just my name written across the front in neat, block-printed handwriting: Dr. Emily Carter.
My stomach tightened. I pulled the envelope free from the wood, stepping inside the dark, empty condo and locking the deadbolt behind me. I tossed my bag onto the entryway table, walked into the kitchen, and flipped on the overhead light.
I sliced the top open with a kitchen knife and dumped the contents onto the granite island.
A stack of printed photographs slid out across the counter, alongside a folded sheet of legal stationery.
I picked up the top photo. My breath caught in my throat.
It was a picture of me walking out of the St. Victoria staff entrance early that morning, holding my medical bag—taken from a telephoto lens hidden across the street. Beneath it was a photo of Daniel and me arguing in the hospital waiting area.
And beneath that was a copy of the exact anonymous ethics complaint filed with the state medical board—bearing a signature that wasn't anonymous at all.
It was signed by Julian Reynolds—Daniel’s younger brother.
Before I could even process the betrayal, my cell phone buzzed loudly on the kitchen counter, breaking the silence of the empty condo. The caller ID flashed a number I didn't recognize, but the local area code belonged to a private investigator's office downtown.
May you like
I swiped to answer, bringing the phone slowly to my ear.
"Dr. Carter?" a gravelly, professional voice asked on the other end. "I'm calling on behalf of the private security firm your fiancé's father retained two weeks ago. We need to meet tonight. There's something in Mr. Reynolds' private corporate archives you need to see before the board meeting tomorrow morning—and it concerns the real reason your father died twenty years ago."
