I walked out of Washington Holdings headquarters in a daze, the gleaming glass and steel feeling like a cage I was now locked out of. The humid air of the city felt thick, pressing in on me. Damon’s words echoed in my mind: *off-book tax irregularities… embezzlement*. It was a corporate dagger poised at my throat.
Just as I reached my car, a woman stepped out from behind a parked sedan, blocking my path. She was tall, with sharp, intelligent eyes and a notepad clutched in her hand. Her hair was pulled back tightly, giving her a no-nonsense air.
“Mr. Washington?” she asked, her voice clear and direct. “Marcus Washington, CEO of Washington Holdings?”
I stopped, my hand hovering over the car door handle. My mind was still reeling from Damon’s threats. “Yes?”
“Alexis Gaines,” she introduced herself, extending a business card. “Metro Sentinel. Investigative reporter.”
I took the card. The name of the paper was familiar, known for its deep dives into local corruption. My guard immediately went up.
“I’ve been looking into some… irregularities regarding urban land appraisals in this district,” she said, her eyes scanning my face. “Specifically, the Northwood redevelopment project.”
My breath hitched. The Northwood project. Damon’s $14 million grant, his unwitting proxy Teresa Banks, the looming demolition of Nia’s entire block.
“And what exactly have you found, Ms. Gaines?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even.
She tucked her notepad under her arm. “I’ve been tracking a commercial real estate appraiser named Julian Pryor. He’s been involved in a string of suspiciously low valuations for properties in areas slated for development. Northwood, in particular.”
My mind raced. Julian Pryor. The name felt like a missing piece clicking into place, but I couldn’t quite grasp why.
“I have reason to believe,” Alexis continued, stepping closer, “that Pryor was paid an unusually large sum of money to declare several properties, including a local clinic, structurally condemned. Forcing residents out with minimal compensation.”
A cold wave washed over me. Nia’s clinic. This was it. This was Damon’s corruption, stretching back fifteen years, now coming full circle.
“And who paid Mr. Pryor?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
Alexis looked at me, her expression unreadable. “My sources indicate the payment came from a shell company. One with strong, if indirect, ties to Washington Holdings. Specifically, to your executive vice president, Damon Washington.”
Twist 4. The raw reality of it hit me with the force of a physical blow. Damon hadn’t just forged a single document; he had orchestrated an entire network of fraud, manipulating public officials and exploiting vulnerable communities.
“We’re talking about approximately $150,000 in bribes,” she stated, her voice devoid of judgment, merely relaying facts. “Paid out over several years, starting around 2009.”
2009. The year of the forged demolition order. The year Nia’s family lost everything.
“I’ve been trying to get an official comment from Washington Holdings,” Alexis said, “but I keep hitting brick walls. Damon Washington’s office, specifically.”
A bitter laugh escaped my lips. “He’s very good at building walls.”
I stared at the Metro Sentinel card in my hand. For so long, I had believed the 2009 incident was a regrettable but isolated event, perhaps an overzealous junior manager. I had never imagined my own son, an intern at the time, was behind such calculated malice. And now, he was not only continuing the legacy of his deceit but also actively threatening to destroy me for it. The misunderstanding was shattered. My son was not just ambitious; he was a criminal.
“Ms. Gaines,” I said, meeting her gaze, “I think we need to talk. Not as CEO and reporter, but as two people trying to uncover the truth.”
She nodded slowly, her expression shifting slightly, a flicker of something that looked like cautious optimism. “I thought you might say that.”
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