It wasn’t uncommon for Long Creek to outsource cleaning, but I still filed it away. Tripp Whitaker’s family holdings include regional service contracts. Connections began forming quietly while I returned my attention to the puzzle.
Belle was smiling at something her father just said. Her hand rested lightly on his arm. She looked . . . lighter.
This was the right decision.
I was concerned I had fractured something beyond repair the night I lost control. But it would seem Belle is giving me a second chance, one I do not intend to waste.
The rest of the evening unfolded easily. Dinner was simple. The conversation was softer than it had been in weeks. Belle curled into my side on the couch afterward, her head tucked beneath my chin as we half-watched something forgettable on television.
It felt . . . normal, domestic even.
When she falls asleep, her breathing deep and even against my chest, I remain still for a long time.
While I did not wish to disturb the peace, my mind would not be quiet.
There was something wrong. I didn’t have proof just yet, but my instincts were very rarely wrong when it came to business matters, at least.
Tripp Whitaker’s voice on the phone. The resistance over a simple paycheck. The uniforms at Long Creek. The way Belle stiffens when his name is mentioned.
I had built an empire on reading patterns others overlook. And there was a pattern here, and all arrows led back to Tripp.
Carefully, I slid out from beneath her and settled a blanket over her shoulders before moving down the hall.
My office greeted me in darkness. I switched on only the desk lamp.
I did not intend to break the law. I intended to understand.
The Whitaker portfolio pulled up quickly.
Layered holdings. Sub-companies. Quiet acquisitions routed through shell entities.
Retirement facilities. It would seem they were acquiring assisted living facilities. Five in Ohio alone, and one of them was Long Creek.
I leaned back slowly.
I didn’t like it. I continued to look and clicked in through quiet back channels. It was all there. Cleaning contracts. Vendor agreements. Internal oversight. It is all contained within the same structure. Whitaker Industries.
My jaw tightened. A few keystrokes later, I was deeper in the system than most auditors ever reach.
I reviewed invoices and payment schedules, along with care level adjustments. That was when I found Belle’s father’s file.
He was coded for step-up care review, and it was flagged as pending because the account was behind. Because she had been drowning to keep him afloat.
The thought settled cold in my chest.
This was not charity. This was a correction. A transfer was anonymized through holding channels. With a matter of clicks and a transfer of money, I paid the past balance and prepaid for the next year.
I closed the file.
I would deal with Whitaker separately.
Footsteps sounded softly in the hallway. Belle appeared in the doorway, hair tousled, wearing one of my shirts that fell mid-thigh.
“You vanished,” she murmured sleepily.
“Ma Belle, what are you doing?”
She stepped inside and leaned against the desk. The lamplight cast her in warm gold.
