Chapter 10: The Audit And The Architect
The morning light over the medical complex did little to soften the sterile efficiency of the brick-and-glass exterior. Vance parked the sedan in a designated medical staff slot near the side entrance, his jaw set as he killed the engine. The clinic belonging to Dr. Harrison occupied the entire second floor of a private outpatient facility, well-funded and shielded by layers of administrative assistants and privacy agreements.
"The auditors from the state medical board are already inside," Vance said, turning his head to look at me across the center console. "They've been reviewing his prescription registries since eight o'clock. My family's legal team is handling the corporate side, but I wanted you here because you saw what the charting missed."
"Charting can be manipulated, but an obstructed airway doesn't lie," I said, opening my door and stepping out onto the crisp asphalt.
We walked through the glass sliding doors together, the automatic chime signaling our arrival to a reception desk adorned with polished brass lettering. The receptionist, a woman in a sharply tailored blazer with a silver lapel pin, looked up with an expression of practiced corporate indifference. Before she could recite the standard visitor protocol, Vance stepped closer to the counter, his presence cutting through her prepared speech like a cold wind.
"Vance Sterling," he said, his voice level and entirely devoid of warmth. "We are here for the board audit currently underway in the conference room."
The receptionist's eyes flicked from Vance to me, taking in my plain wool coat and sturdy boots, registering the contrast between us. Her fingers hovered over her keyboard for a fraction of a second too long before she nodded curtly. "Down the hall to the left. The third door on your right. Mr. Harrison is already inside with his counsel."
The conference room was smaller than I expected, smelling faintly of dry-erase markers and strong black coffee. Two state investigators sat on one side of a long mahogany table, their briefcases open, surrounded by stacks of patient files bound in red tabs. Dr. Harrison sat opposite them, his graying hair perfectly combed, wearing a tailored charcoal suit that cost more than my entire year's rent at the old apartment. When we walked in, his gaze darted to Vance, then hardened instantly when he saw me standing just behind him.
"Sterling," Dr. Harrison said, his tone dripping with professional condescension. "I am deeply sorry for your family's distress at the gala, but bringing a banquet employee into a confidential medical proceeding is irregular to the point of absurdity."
"She isn't an employee anymore, Harrison," Vance replied, pulling out a chair for me before taking a seat himself. "She's the person who kept my mother from dying on a ballroom floor while your prescribed dosage schedule nearly shut down her respiratory system."
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"That is a severe and unsubstantiated accusation," Harrison said, his voice rising just enough to catch the attention of the lead investigator.
"Let's look at the records, then," the lead investigator said, sliding a thick folder across the table. He looked directly at me. "Miss, you noted specific signs of acute toxicity rather than standard syncope. Can you walk us through what you observed on the floor that night?"
