“They never reported complications,” Milo noted, eyes narrowing. “The deaths were filed under ‘natural causes.’”
A photo fell out—a young man in a hospital gown, his face bruised, the same boy who had offered me that dance.
“Coach Daniels funded this,” I whispered, the memory of his limp resurfacing. “He thought he was saving us.”
“And someone’s covering it up,” Milo replied, his fingers trembling over the ink.
We heard a distant footstep, the metallic clank of a security guard’s badge.
“We need the board minutes,” I said, urgency sharpening my voice. “If we can prove the link, they can’t proceed with the next surgery.”
Milo cracked open a locked cabinet, pulling out a slim, bound ledger. The pages listed donor names—one after another—every entry a check from “Daniels Enterprises.”
My throat tightened. “They’re laundering money through the trial,” I breathed.
“And the deaths are the price,” Milo added, his voice barely a whisper.
We slipped the file into my bag, the paper rustling like a guilty conscience.
“We have to get this to the board now,” I said, the weight of the evidence matching the weight of my cane.
“Before they schedule the next operation,” Milo agreed, his eyes darting toward the hallway light that began to flicker.
Section 6 – The Boardroom Betrayal
The boardroom smelled of polished wood and stale coffee, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
Coach Daniels sat at the head of the table, his eyes flickering with the same tired resolve I’d seen years ago.
Dr. Milo stood beside me, his hands clenched around his own notebook, his stare fixed on the presenter’s screen.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the hospital director began, “we’ll hear from Ms. Alvarez about the new therapy.”
I rose, the cane tapping rhythmically on the marble floor, the folder of damning documents tucked under my arm.
“What I’m about to show you,” I said, voice steady despite the tremor in my knees, “is the truth behind the ‘experimental’ protocol.”
I placed the file on the table; the paper crackled, drawing a brief gasp from the room.
“These records link every patient who underwent the therapy to an unexplained death,” I continued, flipping to the first page. “And they were all funded by Coach Daniels.”
Coach Daniels’ jaw tightened. “I—” he started, then stopped, the silence thick.
Milo leaned forward, eyes bright. “This is why I hesitated. I thought the surgery could help, but… this is murder.”
The director’s fingers drummed on the mahogany. “We’ll have to investigate,” he said, trying to sound calm.
Just as I was about to hand over the ledger, the lights sputtered and went dark.
A collective gasp rose, followed by the clatter of chairs as someone cried out.
In the sudden blackness, a loud crash echoed—metal against metal, a cabinet top toppling over.
Then a figure emerged, moving swiftly toward the table, its face hidden behind a black mask.
Hands gloved, the silhouette snatched the file, the pages fluttering like wounded birds.
“No!” I shouted, lunging, but the masked person was already slipping through the doorway.
The emergency lights flickered on, casting a dim amber glow on the empty chair where the file had lain.
In the doorway, a familiar silhouette paused—my mother, her hospital badge flashing faintly.
Her eyes met mine for a flicker of a second, then hardened. “You don’t understand why I had to do this,” she whispered, before disappearing into the night.
