Page 164 of Reeves

I let the silence sit for a second longer than it needs to. Then I straighten in the chair.

“My son’s fine, as it turns out.”

Henderson’s expression doesn’t change right away, but his fingers press together a little tighter.

“I’m sorry?”

“I don’t have a son that needs services here.” I rest my hands on my thighs and hold his eyes. “I wanted to hear your sales pitch. I know you pride yourself on your sales pitch.”

He leans back slightly, the chair shifting under him.

“I’m not sure I understand.”

I shift forward again, forearms braced on my thighs, closing some of the distance between us.

“Charli Parsons.”

No immediate reaction. Then a slight tightening at his jaw.

“Pediatric Therapy Solutions,” I add.

“Ah, yes. Ms. Parsons. She's not part of our network, but she's a lovely therapist.”

“Cut the bullshit.”

I hold his eyes, not pushing, not filling the space. Just letting it sit there between us.

“I know what you're doing. You make an offer on thesesmaller practices, and if they don’t take it, then miraculously get an email from Medicaid about a complaint or billing issue, putting pressure on them to break. And then you come back in and save the day. Am I right?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His hand moves to the edge of the folder, straightening it even though it’s already square.

“That’s a serious accusation, Mr. Stone.”

I watch his hand as it stills on the paper, then bring my eyes back to his.

“I’m not here to argue about it, and I don't want to hear your denial. I know. Let's just leave it there.”

The room stays quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioning.

“What you’re going to do when I leave is step out of anything you’ve put in motion tied to Pediatric Therapy Solutions,” I say, holding his eyes. “No follow-up. No pressure. No contact with Charli Parsons.”

His lips press together.

“I don’t know what you think?—”

I push up from the chair before he can finish, the legs scraping softly against the floor.

“I told you I don't want to hear it. Fix it,” I say, holding his eyes. “Or I make this a very expensive problem for you.”

He stands too, slower this time.

“This is highly inappropriate. If you have concerns?—”

I step closer to the desk, close enough that he has to tilt his head back slightly.

“You picked the wrong one.” My hand comes down flat on the edge of his desk.

His Adam’s apple moves when he swallows. I want to thump it but I resist the urge.