He placed it on speakerphone and set it on the wooden table.

The phone rang three times before a woman’s tired, cautious voice answered.

“Hello?” she said.

“My name is Ethan Whitmore,” Ethan said. “I am Claire’s husband.”

There was a sharp, trembling intake of breath on the other end of the line.

“I’ve been waiting for this call,” the woman said, her voice shaking.

“I was Claire’s night nurse. I have the original medical reports.”

“Daniel Pierce paid the administrator to alter her charts and ignore her rising blood pressure.”

“They wanted her kept in the hospital, sedated, so she couldn’t sign the audit papers.”

Daniel lunged for the phone on the table, his face twisted in panic.

Ethan caught him by the arm, shoving him back against the wall with a heavy thud.

“Listen to me, you bastard,” Ethan growled, his voice thick with a year of pent-up grief.

“The police are already on their way,” Ethan added, his eyes locked on his former partner.

I immediately reached into my pocket, pulled out my own phone, and dialed emergency services.