“Two point five million.”
The room went quiet.
“Derek’s been gambling since 2020,” David said. “Illegal poker games. Sports betting. He’s in deep.”
He pulled out a bank statement.
“March 15, 2024. A wire transfer. Three hundred thousand from Derek’s personal account to an offshore entity in the Cayman Islands.”
“That was a payment,” David said. “Not enough to clear the debt—just enough to buy time.”
He laid out two more photographs—Derek and Dmitri. Different locations. May 8th. June 3rd.
Then a text message screenshot. Dmitri’s number.
June 30 deadline. No extensions.
“If Derek doesn’t pay by June 30th,” David said quietly, “he won’t see July.”
I stared at the photos. My future son-in-law shaking hands with a man who would end him.
“So he’s stealing my company,” I said. “To pay off the mob.”
David nodded.
“Folder two,” he said, tapping the blue one. “Cascade Holdings LLC.”
He slid documents across the desk.
“Formed March 10th, 2024. Delaware registration. Two partners: Derek Pierce and Rachel Morrison.”
My stomach dropped.
He pulled out an email, printed, highlighted.
From: Derek Pierce
To: Martin Blackwell, CEO Stratton Advisory
Subject: Morrison client list + Q1 financials
Date: April 14, 2024
Files attached. Remaining data available upon acquisition confirmation. Wire $500,000 to Cascade Holdings account per our agreement.
I couldn’t breathe.
“Derek sold your client list,” David said. “And your financials. To your competitor. For five hundred thousand.”
George leaned forward, face dark. “I knew something was wrong. I just couldn’t prove it.”
David laid out more files.
“Tech Corp Solutions. Derek leaked confidential strategy to their competitor. You lost a two-million annual contract.”
“Midwest Manufacturing. Derek deliberately missed deadlines. One point five million in revenue.”
“Harbor Investments. Derek gave them bad advice. Cost them five million in losses. They sued. You settled for one point two million.”
He looked at me.
“Total damage: six point five million in lost revenue.”
I felt like I’d been punched.
“He wasn’t just stealing from you,” David said. “He was destroying the company from the inside so it would be easier to sell.”
“He poisoned my company,” I whispered.
“Folder three,” David said, tapping the black one. “Dr. James Caldwell.”
He opened it.
“He’s done this before. Three times.”
Case summaries spread across my desk.
Margaret Hastings, 2018. Seventy-eight years old. Ten-million estate. Caldwell fabricated a dementia diagnosis. Her nephew got power of attorney, transferred everything. She was placed in assisted living, died a year later. Caldwell received forty thousand.
Howard Bennett, 2020. Eighty-two. Eight-million estate. Caldwell fabricated cognitive decline. Daughter took control. Sold his business for three million—worth eight. Bennett passed away in 2021. Caldwell got fifty thousand.
Patricia Donovan, 2022. Seventy-four. Fifteen million. Caldwell tried the same thing, but Patricia’s granddaughter is a lawyer. She fought back, exposed the fraud. Case was settled, records sealed. Caldwell still walked away with seventy-five thousand.
Sarah spoke, voice tight. “Two medical board complaints. Both dismissed. Lack of evidence.”
I looked at David. “Patricia Donovan… she’s alive.”
“Yes,” he said. “And she’s willing to testify.”
