He had bypassed the elevators and taken the stairs; his hair was damp from sweat, his collar unbuttoned.

He was pacing the small room, his phone pressed so hard against his ear that his knuckles were white.

I stopped near the door, which was left cracked open an inch to let the stuffy air circulate.

“I don’t care what the hospital database logs say, Whitaker,” Callum snarled into the receiver.

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a smear of moisture on his skin.

“Change the admission dates on her file,” Callum said. “Make it look like a system glitch.”

He paused, listening to the doctor’s frantic reply.

“If they audit the server, tell them it was a manual override due to an emergency,” Callum pressured.

His voice was thick, stripped of his usual boardroom confidence.

“You took five hundred thousand dollars from the family trust, Whitaker,” Callum whispered harshly.

“If I go down for falsifying custody evidence, you go down for healthcare fraud.”

He slammed his fist against the laminate table, making the plastic pen tray rattle.