He left with two suitcases and the confidence of a man walking toward a better life. I watched his car disappear down the street, then opened the locked drawer beneath my desk.
Inside the drawer were six months of bank records, vendor contracts, security logs, and copies of every invoice Justin had approved as chief operating officer of my company. He had transferred nearly eight hundred thousand dollars through a fake marketing agency registered to Rachel’s cousin. The money had paid for her penthouse, private clinic, and nursery.
But the paper beneath those financial records mattered more. It was an old medical report from Justin’s mother, Martha, sent to me three weeks earlier with one trembling sentence written on a sticky note.
The note read: Before you confront him, you need to know the truth.
The report said Justin had irreversible non-obstructive azoospermia. He had been sterile since he was nineteen years old.
