Chapter 3: The Name I Hadn't Heard in Seven Years
The message was three sentences long.
*I know what Richard and Ethan are filing on Monday.
I have the documents.
Call me — Dr.
Nora Voss.*
I stared at the name until the highway lights blurred past the window.
Nora Voss.
Seven years ago, Nora had been the lead patent attorney at Prescott Biomedical.
She had helped me register my first two patents before my father quietly had her contract terminated.
He told me she'd resigned.
I had believed him.
I called her back before the car reached the terminal.
She picked up on the first ring.
"Madeline.
I wasn't sure you'd call."
"What documents?" I said.
"Your father retained a firm called Halcourt Legal three months ago.
They drafted a retroactive licensing agreement — the language is designed to make it appear that Prescott Biomedical holds co-ownership of everything you developed while employed there."
My jaw tightened.
"That's not legal."
"It isn't.
But it's convincing enough to tie you up in litigation for two years if they file it Monday morning.
By the time the courts sort it out, the government contract in D.C.
would be long gone.
And Prescott would have used your research to close a private funding round worth forty million dollars."
The car slowed for a traffic light.
Outside, a family was crossing the street — a mother, a father, two small children holding hands.
"How do you have this?" I asked.
"Because one of the junior associates at Halcourt is my former student," Nora said.
"She called me last week.
She didn't feel right about what they were asking her to sign off on.
She made copies before she walked out."
"She quit?"
"She quit." A pause.
"Madeline, I owe you an apology.
When your father let me go, I was angry enough to walk away cleanly.
I should have warned you.
I've thought about that for years."
I didn't say anything for a moment.
"Where are you?" I finally asked.
"Washington.
I've been here for four years.
I run an IP litigation practice on K Street."
The terminal entrance came into view.
The driver signaled and moved toward the drop-off lane.
"I need to see those documents," I said.
"I'll have them on your desk by eight a.m.
Monday."
"I land Sunday night."
"Then I'll meet you at the airport."
I stepped out of the car and stood on the curb with my bag at my feet and the phone still warm against my ear.
"Nora.
Why are you doing this now?"
The pause was longer this time.
"Because your father called me last Tuesday," she said.
"He offered me a consulting fee to stay quiet about what I knew.
He thought money would be enough." Another pause.
"He hasn't changed at all, has he."
It wasn't a question.
"No," I said.
"He hasn't."
I ended the call and walked through the terminal doors.
Behind me, my phone lit up again.
A text from Ethan this time.
*Madeline, we need to talk before Monday.
Please don't do anything rash.*
I turned the screen face-down in my bag.
He had used the word *rash*.
As if I were the one who needed to be managed.
I checked in, cleared security, and found my gate.
I sat down and opened my laptop.
The Prescott Biomedical annual filing was public record.
I pulled it up and scrolled to the intellectual property disclosures.
My name appeared eleven times.
Ethan's appeared once — on a minor process patent he had contributed three lines of data to, four years ago.
I closed the laptop.
The gate agent announced boarding.
May you like
I stood up, straightened my jacket, and joined the line.
Monday was going to be a very different day than my father had planned.
