Chapter 5 - Ivy Was Never Just a Victim
The ledger changed the room.
Until that morning, Ivy had been a frightened woman with cracked ribs, a stitched eyebrow, and a husband powerful enough to terrify her into blaming stairs.
Now Selene saw something else.
A witness.
A planner.
Someone who had been surviving long enough to collect evidence.
“You copied this from Preston’s computer?” Selene asked.
Ivy nodded.
“He keeps two laptops. One for the business people who know his name. One for the people who are never supposed to know his name.”
“And you knew the password?”
“I knew his habits.”
Damen stood near the window, arms folded.
“What did you copy?”
“Everything I could before he came back into the room.”
“Did he know?”
“Not until later.”
“How?”
Ivy looked at the burn on her shoulder.
“He saw the USB drive in my hand.”
Selene’s stomach tightened.
“That’s why he did this.”
“One reason.”
She hated the phrase.
One reason.
As if there could be a list long enough to explain violence.
Damen asked, “Where is the original drive?”
Ivy hesitated.
“Not here.”
Selene looked at her.
“Good.”
Damen’s brow lifted.
Ivy almost smiled.
“I mailed it to myself.”
“Where?”
“A postal box under my maiden name.”
“Who knows?”
“No one. I hope.”
Selene sat beside her.
“You do not have to become an investigator because people hurt you.”
Ivy’s eyes filled.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
That answer was honest enough to hurt.
The federal task force took custody of a forensic copy of the ledger through Ivy’s attorney. The process was slow by design.
Chain of custody.
Authentication.
Corroboration.
The kind of words that frustrate people who want truth to behave like a movie.
Selene loved them.
If the case survived, it needed to survive because the evidence was clean, not because Damen frightened the right men.
The ledger showed Preston was not the center of the network.
He was a broker.
He moved money from shell charities into clinics, shelters, construction firms, and payroll companies. Some recipients were knowingly involved. Others appeared to be legitimate organizations that had accepted grants without knowing the source.
Mercy Street was in the second category.
At least on paper.
That did not save Selene from scrutiny.
Two days later, the state medical board sent notice of an inquiry.
Anonymous complaint.
Improper receipt of restricted funds.
Possible billing irregularities.
Possible disclosure of patient information.
Selene read the letter twice.
Then handed it to her lawyer.
Damen stood across the penthouse kitchen.
“Who filed it?”
“Anonymous.”
“It was Preston.”
“Probably.”
“I can prove—”
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
“You do not know what I was going to say.”
“You were going to say you can prove who filed it because one of your men can access something he should not access.”
A pause.
“Maybe.”
“Then no.”
He stared at her.
“You are very comfortable telling me no in my own house.”
“Your house has good acoustics.”
Ivy laughed from the sofa.
Damen looked betrayed.
Good.
The board inquiry meant Selene could keep practicing unless restrictions were imposed, but Mercy Street itself remained closed for two days while police finished processing the break-in and IT confirmed the server had not been compromised.
Her patients still needed care.
So Selene called everyone she knew.
A church clinic took six appointments.
A mobile unit took twelve.
A pediatrician she had not spoken to since residency covered three children with asthma.
One of Damen’s drivers offered to transport an elderly diabetic patient across town.
Selene refused at first.
Then the patient called and said, “Doctor, if the scary rich man has a car, I am not taking two buses in the rain to protect your pride.”
Selene surrendered.
The scary rich man won that round.
On the third day, Maria came to the penthouse with her son, Leo.
He was ten, serious, and carried a red backpack with a robot keychain.
Damen had arranged temporary security through a licensed firm, not his own people.
Another point in his favor she did not want to count.
Maria sat at the table and cried.
“I should have known.”
Selene pushed a tissue box toward her.
“You should have known a man with legitimate property documents was part of a criminal network?”
“I should have checked with you before giving your schedule.”
“Yes.”
Maria looked up, startled.
Selene softened.
“You made a mistake. It matters. It does not make you responsible for Preston threatening your child.”
Maria nodded.
“I’ll testify.”
“Only after you talk to your lawyer.”
Damen leaned against the counter.
Maria looked at him.
“You really are the mafia boss?”
Selene closed her eyes.
Damen said, “That title is mostly bad journalism.”
Maria stared.
“Is it wrong?”
He took a sip of coffee.
“Not entirely.”
Leo whispered, “Cool.”
Maria pointed at him.
“No.”
For the first time in days, the room felt almost normal.
Then Ivy’s attorney called.
The postal box had been opened.
The original USB was gone.
Ivy went white.
“No.”
“When?”
“Yesterday,” the attorney said. “Someone presented identification under your maiden name.”
“My ID is in Preston’s safe.”
Damen straightened.
Selene looked at Ivy.
“Did Preston know about the box?”
“I never told him.”
“Then who did?”
Ivy closed her eyes.
“One person.”
“Who?”
“My sister.”
Damen’s expression sharpened.
Ivy whispered, “Claire.”
Selene remembered the first thing Ivy had said at the clinic.
I didn’t know where else to go.
Now she wondered why Ivy had not gone to family.
“Where is your sister?”
Ivy’s voice turned hollow.
“Preston told me she moved to Seattle two years ago.”
“Did you ever speak to her?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“He said she wanted nothing to do with me.”
Selene felt cold.
Damen already had his phone out.
Ivy looked at him.
“Find her.”
This time Selene did not object.
Forty-seven minutes later, Damen returned to the room.
He looked at Ivy.
“Your sister never moved to Seattle.”
Ivy stopped breathing.
“Where is she?”
Damen’s voice lowered.
“Cook County Women’s Detention Center.”
Ivy stared.
“For what?”
“Identity theft. Fraud. Possession of forged documents.”
Selene understood before Ivy did.
The stolen postal-box USB.
The fake identification.
The network did not need Claire free.
They needed her name.
Damen continued.
“She has been incarcerated for eighteen months.”
Ivy began to cry.
“Preston told me she abandoned me.”
“No,” Damen said.
He placed a printed booking record on the table.
“He made sure you could not reach the one person you trusted enough to hide evidence with.”
And beneath Claire’s booking photograph was the name of the attorney who had represented her at arraignment.
May you like
Peter Holloway.
Preston’s brother.
