“It was a very thorough plan,” I said. “But you forgot that medical records cannot be bribed when a federal judge signs the subpoena.”

Carter dropped the papers onto the floor.

They fluttered onto the polished parquet wood, landing near his polished leather shoes.

“This doesn’t change anything,” Carter whispered, though his voice was hollow. “The board still stands behind me.”

He looked toward the front table, but the board members quickly turned their heads, refusing to meet his eyes.

A heavy silence settled over the room again, broken only by the distant crashing of the Atlantic waves against the Newport cliffs outside.

Then, the heavy oak doors at the back of the ballroom creaked open.

A tall man with iron-gray hair walked into the room, his cane tapping rhythmically against the hardwood.

It was Thomas Hartwell, Carter’s father.

He had not been seen in public since his stroke three years ago, but he walked now with a slow, deliberate strength.

His eyes were cold, fixed entirely on me as he approached the platform.

The guests parted instantly to let him through.