Jennifer’s blood ran cold. Move what?
She ducked into a nearby alcove as the men exited, then slid into the room before the door could swing shut.
Inside, cartons lined the walls, each labeled with out-of-state addresses. On a desk, a single sheet of paper lay exposed.
Her hands shook as she picked it up. Bold letters at the top read: AGREEMENT.
Her eyes scanned frantically. And then she saw it—Dr. Harris’s signature, right above a detailed list of stolen medical supplies, their destinations, and their projected profit.
Jennifer’s stomach churned. Her worst fears crystallized into truth.
Snapping a photo with shaking hands, she clutched her phone to her chest. This wasn’t rumor. It wasn’t paranoia. It was organized theft.
She couldn’t be caught—not now. Not with this. Taking a steadying breath, she slipped from the room. And then, heart hammering, she made the call.
She told the authorities everything: the whispers, the photos, the documents, the recordings. Her voice quivered, but her conviction never wavered.
The response was swift. Within days, detectives posed as patients, their quiet investigation unearthing damning evidence: falsified records, hidden invoices, surveillance footage of supplies being smuggled out.
The scope was staggering—a full-scale operation, concealed beneath the sterile walls of trust.