“A shell corporation based in the Caymans,” Wright said. “RF Imports.”
“Ryan Ford Imports,” I whispered.
“Ryan doesn’t just owe Reed money,” Wright said, standing up and grabbing his briefcase. “Ryan owns him. He’s not a conspirator. He’s a puppet.”
He checked his watch.
“6:15 a.m. Let’s go, Peter. We have a hearing to attend.”
The phone on Wright’s desk shattered the 6 a.m. silence again.
We both stared at it. Caller ID showed Ryan’s face smiling in a photo taken at a backyard barbecue last summer, a lifetime ago.
Wright just nodded once.
“Speaker, Peter. And remember who you are. You’re not a CEO. You’re a confused, terrified old man who just saw his daughter collapse.”
I took a breath. I picked up the phone. My hand was steady, but I made my voice tremble.
“Hello, Ryan.”
“Dad. Oh, thank God. Where are you? I’ve been calling your cell, the house. I was about to call the police. Are you okay?”
His voice was a masterpiece of fake concern, a performance so slick it made my skin crawl. He was an artist of deceit.
“I…I don’t know,” I stammered, cupping my hand over the phone as if trying to hide my words. “I’m… I’m at a diner. A coffee shop. I couldn’t be in the house, Ryan. Not after last night. All of Laura’s things, I just…I needed to think.”
I heard him let out a long, slow sigh. It wasn’t relief that I was safe. It was the sigh of a predator who had just located his prey. He thought I was weak, broken, wandering the streets in a daze.
“Dad, I understand. I really do,” he said, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “But listen to me. I have…I have some news. It’s about Emily.”
“Emily?” I asked, my voice cracking. “Is she…is she worse?”
“No, no, she’s…she’s stable. She’s resting.” He paused, setting the hook. “But I just spoke to her doctor. Her real doctor. The specialist who’s been treating her. Dr. Reed.”
“Reed?” I repeated, as if trying to place the name. “The… the man you were calling from the hospital?”
“Yes, Dad,” Ryan said, his voice smooth and reassuring. “He’s been treating her for…for this condition for months. He came to the hospital as soon as I called him. He reviewed her chart. He…he talked to Dr. Chen and—”
I pushed.
“What did he say?”
Here it came. The second trap.
“Dad, he’s worried. He’s worried about you.”
I stayed silent. I let the confused pause hang in the air.
“Me?” I finally whispered. “Why…why me?”
“He says—he says based on what I told him—your forgetfulness lately, your outburst at the restaurant, how you were so confused…”
He was using my own act against me, turning my feigned symptoms into his evidence.
“He says these neurological conditions, they can be genetic. He says what happened to Emily, it could be a precursor to what’s happening to you.”
It was brilliant. A disgusting, brilliant lie. He was building a bridge, connecting his wife’s “suicide attempt” directly to my supposed decline, with his paid-off doctor as the foundation.
“I…I don’t understand,” I said, my voice shaking. “I feel fine. I’m just…I’m just upset, son. I’m—”
“Dad, listen to me,” Ryan said, his voice hardening just a fraction, taking on the air of a son forced to take charge. “Dr. Reed is a professional. He’s the best in his field. And he’s on his way to your house right now to check on you. It’s for your own good. I’ll meet him there in thirty minutes.”
There it was. The trap.
