“For Hannah.”
Patricia looked genuinely amused.
“Hannah has counsel?”
“She does now.”
“No,” Ryan said. “She did then, too.”
Patricia’s smile faded.
Ryan opened his phone and tapped the screen.
A recording began playing.
Hannah’s voice filled the hallway.
Quiet.
Controlled.
Dated.
“April 18. Caleb moved $312,000 from the joint investment account at 10:42 p.m. He told me it was for taxes. The accountant has no record of a tax payment. Patricia called at 11:06 and said I needed to remember that Whitmore money stays with Whitmores.”
Patricia went rigid.
Caleb lunged for the phone.
Marcus Hale stepped in front of him.
“Sir.”
Ryan paused the recording.
“You still want to talk about pregnancy imagination?”
Patricia’s eyes went flat.
Now the mask was gone.
Not all the way.
Just enough for Ryan to see the machinery behind it.
“You have no idea what you’re interfering with,” she said.
Ryan slipped the phone into his pocket.
“That’s the first honest thing anyone in your family has said today.”
At 8:03, the OR doors opened.
Everyone turned.
Dr. Mercer came out still wearing her surgical cap.
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