My Cult Leader Boss Thought I Was a Broke Temp Medic Until My Sleeve Slipped in the Infirmary Tent
I was still in the infirmary tent, monitoring Caleb, when the crunch of tires on gravel announced Sheriff O’Shea’s arrival. He wasn’t alone. Four deputies spilled out of two county cruisers, their uniforms crisp despite the driving rain.
O’Shea strode toward the main lodge, a smirk on his face, handcuffs dangling from his belt. He clearly expected a straightforward arrest.
But as he reached the front steps, Elder Silas Crain stepped out into the downpour. He held his head high, a newfound resolve etched onto his fragile features. The founder’s letter, though creased, was still clutched in his hand.
“Sheriff O’Shea!” Silas’s voice, though thin, carried through the compound yard. “I have something you need to hear.”
O’Shea stopped, annoyance flickering across his face. “Silas, this isn’t the time. We have official business here.”
“This *is* official business,” Silas retorted, his gaze firm. He turned to the deputies, who had stopped behind the Sheriff. “Fifteen years ago, the founder of this Covenant, Isaac Crain, was murdered. Poisoned by his own grandson, Elias.”
A hush fell over the courtyard. The rain continued to fall, the only sound the drumming on the tin roofs.
“That’s a wild accusation, old man,” O’Shea growled, taking a step toward Silas.
“It’s no accusation,” Silas said, unfolding the letter. His voice gained strength as he read, word for word, his deceased brother’s confession: “My dearest Silas, if you are reading this, then my fears have come to pass. Elias has been tampering with the water supply to the Founder’s cabin. Enough to make Father weak, confused…”
The deputies exchanged uneasy glances. Silas’s voice, though quavering, was clear, detailing the insidious plot to seize the compound. Then he reached the crucial part.
“He has already manipulated the property deeds to put everything in his name, away from the true spirit of the Covenant. He has created secret accounts, numbers he shared with no one but a select few. Account number: 83-567-910, registered to ‘Pinnacle Ventures LLC’ in the Cayman Islands.”
O’Shea’s face went slack. His jaw dropped. The deputies shifted, their eyes fixed on their sheriff.
“Sheriff O’Shea,” one of the deputies, a young woman with a sharp gaze, spoke up, “Isn’t that the same account number for that offshore investment company you opened last year? The one Internal Affairs just started looking into?”
O’Shea went absolutely rigid. He stumbled backward, his face draining of all color. The letter had not only revealed Elias’s crimes but laid bare the Sheriff’s own corruption, a financial trail directly linking him to the poisoned founder’s stolen wealth. The handcuffs he’d intended for me now looked strangely fitting for himself.
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