The message ended.
Howard watched me quietly.
“I’ve known you for fifteen years,” he said. “You once caught an overtime error while sitting in a hospital waiting room.”
“My mother was having knee surgery.”
“And you still noticed the error.”
He leaned forward, both hands resting on his cane.
“My wife had dementia.”
“I know.”
“No, Evelyn. You don’t.”
His voice softened.
“I know what early dementia looks like. You do not have it.”
Something inside me gave way.
I had never truly believed I was losing my mind. What broke me was realizing how many people Richard might have contacted and how carefully he had chosen their fears.
Howard slid a folder across the desk.
“There’s a copy of the voicemail.”
“You’re giving it to me?”
“You manage my payroll,” he said. “And you’re my friend.”
Marcus listened to the recording three times.
“This establishes a pattern,” he said.
“Richard is trying to destroy my credibility.”
“And your business.”
