Chapter 4 - THE ROUTE MY WIFE NEVER CAME HOME FROM
For a long moment, I couldn't speak.
I read Catherine's handwriting again.
Then again.
There was no mistaking the way she shaped the letter R.
Or the small line beneath the word route.
Catherine always underlined something when she wanted me to pay attention.
“Where did you get this?” I asked.
Sarah watched me carefully.
“From your wife.”
I gripped the paper.
“When?”
“Two weeks before her accident.”
The hospital room felt suddenly too small.
“That's impossible. Catherine never mentioned you.”
“She didn't want to frighten you.”
“Frighten me about what?”
Sarah's gaze moved toward the door.
“About the company you built.”
I sat down.
Outside, rain began striking the window.
“Start from the beginning.”
Sarah took a slow breath.
“Eighteen months before I was fired, I noticed discrepancies in our emergency medical transport records. Shipments marked as temperature-controlled had no corresponding monitoring data.”
“Equipment failures?”
“That's what I thought.”
She shook her head.
“But the records weren't missing. They'd been moved into a separate reporting system.”
“Why?”
“To keep our insurance costs down.”
I frowned.
“That doesn't explain Catherine.”
“I'm getting there.”
She told me that the Eastbank Relief Fund had been created after several contractors reported workplace injuries and medical emergencies.
The official purpose was compassionate assistance.
The actual records showed something different.
Money intended to cover treatment and rehabilitation had repeatedly been delayed, redirected, or denied.
The people affected were drivers, warehouse workers, and their families.
People who didn't have the money to hire attorneys.
Sarah had reported the discrepancies.
Grant assigned her an internal review.
Then Catherine appeared at her office.
I remembered Catherine visiting headquarters occasionally.
She brought Eli drawings to put on my desk.
She learned employees' names.
Sometimes she returned home furious because someone working a night shift couldn't afford childcare.
I used to tease her.
“You're going to give away the company.”
She would smile.
“Only the parts that don't deserve keeping.”
Now that memory made my chest ache.
“Why was Catherine investigating the relief fund?” I asked.
“Because she discovered a payment connected to Eli's treatment.”
I stared at her.
“His medical bills were handled through my personal accounts.”
“Most of them.”
Sarah pointed to the authorization.
“One specialist's treatment was reimbursed through the relief fund after Catherine questioned the denial.”
“That's not possible.”
“It happened.”
I looked at the document again.
“Who approved it?”
Sarah's face tightened.
“Grant.”
My stomach dropped.
“Why would he do that?”
“Catherine believed he was trying to keep her quiet.”
I stood abruptly.
“No. Grant has been with me for fourteen years. He helped build this company.”
“And I believed he wanted me to fix the records.”
She looked away.
“We both trusted him.”
By the time I returned to the waiting room, Nora had taken the children to a quiet family lounge.
Eli was asleep beneath a blanket.
Maggie sat beside him, reading her battered paperback.
She closed it when she saw me.
“How's Mom?”
“She's getting better.”
“Really?”
“The doctors say the medicine is working.”
Maggie pressed the book against her chest.
“Good.”
I noticed the book's title.
The Secret Garden.
Catherine had loved that story.
Maggie caught me looking.
“My mom says gardens aren't just about flowers.”
“What are they about?”
“People getting another chance.”
I swallowed.
“That's a good way to describe it.”
She reached into her backpack.
“Mom said I should show you something if you were nice.”
I almost laughed.
“Have I passed the test?”
Maggie considered.
“You bought us chocolate, and you didn't make Eli stop playing.”
“That's encouraging.”
She handed me a folded sheet of paper.
It was a child's drawing.
Two stick figures stood beside a large truck.
One had long hair.
The other wore a purple jacket.
A third figure stood beneath a yellow sun.
A woman.
Maggie pointed toward her.
“That's the lady who helped us.”
I looked closer.
The woman wore a blue scarf.
Catherine had owned a blue scarf.
A soft cashmere one she'd worn for years.
My pulse quickened.
“Who is she?”
Maggie shrugged.
“Mom called her Cathy.”
I sat down.
“Did you meet her?”
Maggie nodded.
“When I was little.”
“How little?”
“Maybe five.”
Three years ago.
Around the time Catherine died.
“What happened to her?”
Maggie looked confused.
“I don't know. Mom said she went away.”
I stared at the drawing.
The figure beside the truck had something yellow in its hand.
“What is that?”
“A bird.”
“Why a bird?”
“Because the lady gave me one.”
Maggie reached for the brass ornament on her backpack.
The tiny bird had a scratched wing.
I recognized it.
Catherine had bought a pair of brass swallows at an antique market in Seattle.
One for herself.
One for someone she said needed a little luck.
I'd forgotten about them.
Until now.
The next morning, I went directly to headquarters.
Grant was waiting outside my office.
He looked tired.
His gray suit was immaculate, but dark circles marked the skin beneath his eyes.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“Yes, we do.”
He followed me inside.
I placed Catherine's treatment authorization on the desk.
His face changed.
Only slightly.
But enough.
“Where did you find that?”
“Sarah Whitcomb.”
Grant closed his eyes.
“Ronan.”
“Did you authorize money from the employee relief fund for Eli?”
“Yes.”
The simplicity of the answer shocked me.
“Why?”
“Because Catherine asked.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because she didn't want you to know the treatment had been denied twice.”
I stared at him.
“She thought you'd try to pull strings.”
“She wanted it approved fairly. When she learned the fund could cover a qualifying treatment, she pushed for a review.”
“And did Eli qualify?”
Grant hesitated.
“Not under the original guidelines.”
Anger spread through me.
“So you bent the rules.”
“I made an exception for a sick child.”
“How many other children received exceptions?”
He looked away.
That was answer enough.
I stepped closer.
“Catherine knew, didn't she?”
Grant rubbed his forehead.
“She started asking questions.”
“About the fund?”
“About everything.”
“Then she died.”
His eyes hardened.
“Careful, Ronan.”
I hated the warning in his voice.
“You don't get to tell me to be careful when we're discussing my wife.”
Grant took a deep breath.
“I loved Catherine like family. You know that.”
“Then tell me why she wrote that you changed the route.”
He stared at me.
“What route?”
“The route on Interstate 84.”
Something flickered across his expression.
Recognition.
Then fear.
And finally resignation.
“Ronan, I changed a hundred routes that week.”
“I'm asking about one.”
Grant slowly lowered himself into a chair.
“Catherine was supposed to meet a former company driver that afternoon.”
My heart began pounding.
“Who?”
“A man named Thomas Keene.”
“Why?”
“He'd been involved in a collision with one of our medical transport vehicles.”
I remembered the accident investigation.
A company van had jackknifed on a wet highway.
No fatalities.
At least, none reported to me.
“Catherine wanted to speak to him,” Grant continued. “He claimed the truck's maintenance records had been altered.”
“And you changed the route?”
“I changed the location of their meeting because the original warehouse was under inspection.”
“Where did you send them?”
Grant looked at the document in my hand.
Then he said something that made the blood drain from my face.
“To the same rest stop where Catherine was killed.”
He swallowed.
“And Ronan, there's something else.”
I waited.
May you like
His next words were barely audible.
“Catherine wasn't supposed to be driving that car.”
