My mother stepped up to the podium at St. Jude’s Medical Center’s annual gala, looked me dead in the eye, and announced my immediate removal from my late father’s cardiology research trust.
Chaos erupted across the ballroom floor. Clusters of bewildered donors and furious board members shouted at Evelyn, demanding answers. The string quartet had stopped mid-symphony, their instruments held aloft in frozen surprise.
Amidst the pandemonium, Sienna Brooks, Gavin’s mistress and the supposed new director of my father’s patent, walked steadily onto the stage. She bypassed the still-frozen Evelyn, ignored the frantic whispers from the master of ceremonies, and went straight for the microphone.
Her voice, though trembling slightly, cut through the din. “I am publicly revoking my co-authorship of the cardiovascular clinical trial.”
Another wave of shock swept through the crowd. Sienna’s declaration was met with stunned silence.
“The research data,” she continued, her gaze fixed straight ahead, “was systematically falsified under Dr. Evelyn Harlow’s direct coercion. To bypass FDA safety mandates. I was threatened with professional blacklisting. My license. My career.”
A reporter, who had managed to slip past the initial security, yelled from the front row, “Falsified data? To what extent?”
Before Sienna could answer, security guards rushed the stage, their radios squawking. They moved to physically remove her, but it was too late. The damage was done.
Donors were already streaming out of the room, their faces aghast, their expensive pledges now sounding like empty threats. Cell phones were out, flashing, recording every moment of the unfolding scandal.
Evelyn, still standing by the podium, refused to answer any questions. She leaned in close to her assistant, her voice a low, venomous whisper that carried even over the chaos. “Clear out Arthur’s old hospice office. Now. Everything. Get it done.”
Her eyes, momentarily diverted from the projection booth, flickered towards the ICU wing.
I knew exactly what she was looking for. My father’s private journal. The one she’d been desperate to find.
I didn’t wait. As the security guards struggled to regain control of the stage, I quietly exited the projection booth through the service ladder, a hidden access point. My heart was pounding, but my steps were decisive.
Room 412. My father’s hospice room. That was my next, and perhaps final, stop.
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