It was still there.
Inside was a thin manila folder. Four printed emails. One business bank statement. Buckeye Medical Supply’s original incorporation documents, with my name on every page as the sole founder and majority owner.
That was it. That was everything I’d managed to save from my old life.
I took the folder to Russell’s office.
He spent almost two hours looking at those few pages. He didn’t talk. He just read, and made notes, and read again, and held two pages side by side and compared them, and made more notes.
I sat in the chair across from his desk and watched the dying plant.
Finally, he tapped the bank statement.
“This says three hundred and twenty thousand dollars was transferred to Halston Ridge Supply,” he said. “Over about ten weeks. Supposedly for an equipment purchase. Hospital beds and patient lifts.”
“That equipment never arrived,” I said. “We never got so much as a box.”
