The report pivoted, relentless. Maria’s tearful testimony faded, replaced by the cold, hard graphics of a financial audit.
“But the deception wasn’t just emotional,” the journalist narrated. “It was criminal.”
On the screen, bank statements and wire transfers materialized, sourced directly from the `Digital Evidence Packet`. A complex web of arrows illustrated the flow of money with brutal clarity. Donations from thousands of well-meaning people poured into the accounts of `The Finch Foundation`.
Then, a thick red arrow showed millions being funneled out, redirected to a shell corporation.
The name of the corporation appeared on screen: `IF Holdings`. Isolde Finch Holdings.
Isolde stared, her breath catching in her throat. No. It was untraceable. Caspian’s own people had set it up for her. The irony was a physical blow, knocking the air from her lungs.
The audience was in a state of stunned, horrified silence. The scattered murmurs had died, replaced by a collective intake of breath. They were watching a saint burn.
“To perpetrate a fraud of this magnitude,” the journalist continued, his voice heavy, “Ms. Finch needed an accomplice. A medical professional willing to falsify records, forge test results, and lie to the world. That accomplice was her own father.”
The screen cut to a new image. It was the kill shot.
Dr. Alistair Finch sat in a sterile room, the kind used for legal depositions. He was haggard, his expensive suit rumpled, his face a mask of utter defeat. The confident, charming doctor who had spoken so eloquently of his daughter’s bravery was gone. This was a broken man.
A time stamp in the corner of the video read: `DEPOSITION, State v. Finch. Recorded 48 Hours Ago.`
“As part of a plea agreement,” his weary voice confessed from the screen, “I admit to the falsification of all medical records pertaining to Isolde Finch’s diagnosis. There was no cancer. There was never any cancer. It was… it was a scheme to defraud donors. I participated in exchange for a percentage of the funds.”
That was it. The final, irrefutable nail.
Isolde’s terror finally gave way to something else. Something primal and unrestrained.
Rage.
Her carefully constructed world was not just collapsing; it was being systematically dismantled and its rotten pieces held up for the entire world to see.
“Lies!” she shrieked, the sound tearing from her throat, shrill and ugly. She lunged against the silent guard, a useless, frantic gesture. “They’re all lies!”
Every camera in the room swiveled to her, capturing the moment in exquisite high definition.
“Caspian! That bastard and that bitch are framing me!” she screamed, her face contorted, spittle flying from her lips.
The mask of the gentle, dying victim did not just slip. It was incinerated on live television.
And beneath it was the monster that had been there all along.
About the Author
