That was Mark’s company.

Other disbursements were marked as “expedited pharmaceutical clearing fees,” signed off by Dr. James Hendricks.

“They were redirecting the charity money,” I said, my voice barely audible. “They were using the hospital’s purchasing power to buy low-grade supplies, then pocketing the difference through Mark’s firm.”

“Can you print it?” Bernadette asked.

“No, the printer in here logs every job,” I said. “It would alert the IT department immediately.”

I pulled a small USB drive from my pocket.

I plugged it into the side of the tower.

The computer made a quiet chime as it recognized the drive.

I selected the entire directory of staff records, procurement logs, and the charity fund ledgers.

I dragged them into the USB folder.

The progress bar crawled across the screen.

Ten percent.

Twenty percent.

“Someone is coming down the hall,” Bernadette hissed, pressing her back against the heavy wooden door.

I watched the blue bar move slowly.

Fifty percent.

The sound of squeaking rubber soles on the polished linoleum floor grew louder outside.

“Victoria,” Bernadette warned, her hand grasping the brass doorknob to hold it shut.