Sam Devins, still oblivious to the magnitude of the information he’d just shared, pushed a carbon copy of the dispatch receipt across the diner counter. “Here’s the official record, ma’am. Just for your curiosity.”
My fingers trembled as I took the paper. It was a standard incineration manifest, but as I scanned the details, one line jumped out at me, glaring like a neon sign.
Under the “Billing Information” section, instead of a private client account number, it clearly listed: “Bennett Foundation, Non-Profit Account: #07-234-56.” And the item description: “50 units, miscellaneous toxic waste.”
Toxic waste. Not fabric. Not “personal items.” Victoria had labeled Maya’s bears as toxic waste to expedite their destruction, to get them burned at 1,800 degrees with no questions asked. And she had charged it directly to the *Foundation’s* non-profit budget.
My mind raced. This wasn’t just cruel. This was corporate embezzlement. Regulatory fraud. A clear violation of federal whistleblower protection laws. This wasn’t just a personal vendetta; it was a crime.
“Thank you, Mr. Devins,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. I pocketed the receipt, a burning sense of purpose replacing the hollow ache in my chest. This was concrete, unerasable evidence.
I walked out of the diner, the smell of burnt coffee replaced by a new, sharper scent: the smell of impending justice. I pulled out my phone, dialing the number for our family caterer.
“I need an emergency dinner,” I told him, my voice firm. “Seven PM tonight. For the entire board. Formal, silver service.”
The caterer sounded surprised by the urgency, but I didn’t elaborate. Tonight, Victoria would get her reward for her corporate efficiency.
+ There are no comments
Add yours