Chapter 3

The next afternoon, Michael dropped the investigation report in front of me.

It wasn't a thick file.

But every page made my temples throb even harder.

[Two years ago, Aunt Helen checked into the local clinic for a persistent cough. They diagnosed her with a lung infection and told her to go to a larger hospital for treatment.

[The first time she was sent to Riverdale Central Hospital, the ER did the standard check-in, but then suddenly got word from the admin office, claiming all the beds were full and refusing to admit her.

[The second time, she was sent to Riverdale Second Hospital, but had to wait in line for three days before she finally got a bed.

"Three days later, her condition worsened, leading to multiple organ failure. They tried to save her, but it was too late.]

I flipped through the pages one by one.

I reached the last page.

Michael had marked a call log in red.

Caller: The Sinclair Family, Mrs. Sinclair's personal number.

Recipient: Riverdale Central Hospital's administrative director.

Call duration: Four minutes and twelve seconds.

The call happened exactly twenty minutes before my mom was denied admission.

I closed the file.

My grip on the cover tightened, bit by bit.

"Is there a recording?" I asked.

"Yeah," Michael replied. "The hospital administrator kept a backup of the call, he was worried the Sinclairs might screw him over, so he made sure to cover himself. We had to pay up to get our hands on it."

"Play it," I said.

Michael unlocked his phone.

There was a moment of silence, then a woman's voice came through.

I recognized that voice.

All too well.

Olivia's mother, Mrs. Sinclair. A respected figure in Riverdale's socialite circles.

Her voice was calm and measured, laced with that effortless superiority, like she was born thinking she was better than everyone else.

Mrs. Sinclair, "Dr. Warren, don't let that old hag, Helen Carter, into your hospital."

Dr. Warren, "Mrs. Sinclair, isn't that a bit much? She came in through the ER..."

Mrs. Sinclair, "Much? Why waste a bed on some country bumpkin? Send her anywhere else. The community clinic, whatever. Just not here."

Dr. Warren, "Uh..."

Mrs. Sinclair, "I'm giving your center a donation for equipment next week. You know what to do."

The recording cut off.

Four minutes and twelve seconds.

I sat there, completely still.

My face was blank.

But Michael took a half step back.

He'd been with me for five years, seen me stay calm while signing billion-dollar deals, and watched me crush opponents at the negotiating table with ruthless precision.

But right now.

He said he'd never seen that kind of fire in my eyes before.

Michael, "Mr. Carter, "

Me, "Michael."

Michael, "Yes, sir."

Me, "Push up the timeline for Evercrest Holdings' entry into the domestic market."

Michael, "What's the target?"

Me, "The first one."

I stood up and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window.

On the distant city skyline, an office building stood tall, and at the very top, the neon sign read: Sinclair Enterprises.

"Contact all of Sinclair Enterprises' supply chain partners. Buy out whoever we can, negotiate with the rest, and headhunt their people," I said.

"No spending limit."

Michael was scribbling notes behind me, the pen scratching against the paper.

"And one more thing," I said, turning around.

"Get all of Sinclair Enterprises' bank credit lines frozen for the next three months. And make sure the land approval for their latest real estate project gets held up at the city planning office."

"You want to..." Michael said.

"Cut off their lifeline," I said.

I said it so softly, like I was just making a casual remark.

Like I was just commenting on the weather.

Michael closed his notebook.

"Got it," he said.

He turned to leave.

"Wait," I called out.

"Yeah?" Michael asked.

"That admin, Dr. Warren," I said.

"Still in the same job," Michael said.

"We'll get to him later. The Sinclairs come first," I ordered.

The door shut behind him.

Now I was alone in the room.

I stood by the window, hands shoved in my pockets.

Mrs. Sinclair.

Back when you had your boot on my neck, I bet you never thought you'd live to see this day.

You made my mom die on a shitty bed in some rundown community hospital.

I would make sure every single one of you in the Sinclair Family tasted the same kind of hell.

I was in no hurry.

I would take my time.