Chapter 4: Forty Million Reasons to Lie
Nora was already waiting when I came through arrivals Sunday evening.
She was shorter than I remembered, her hair silver now, reading glasses pushed up on her head.
She was holding a brown accordion folder against her chest like it was something fragile.
"You look exactly the same," she said.
"You look like someone who's been preparing for a fight," I said.
She almost smiled.
"I have been."
We found a quiet corner of the terminal café.
She ordered coffee.
I ordered nothing.
She set the folder on the table between us and opened it.
The Halcourt documents were forty-three pages.
I read the key sections while Nora talked me through the structure.
"The core argument is here," she said, pointing to page seven.
"They're claiming that because you used Prescott laboratory equipment and facilities during the development period, the company holds an implied co-ownership interest under Arizona employment statute."
"I wasn't an employee during most of that development period.
I was a contracted researcher."
"Exactly.
And your contract explicitly excluded IP ownership transfer.
But they're betting that a judge in a preliminary hearing won't catch that distinction fast enough to stop the Monday filing."
I turned to page twelve.
A signature line.
Richard Prescott.
Dated six weeks ago.
"He signed this before the proposal," I said.
"Three days before."
I set the page down.
"So the proposal was the last piece.
Keep me emotionally off-balance over the weekend.
I fly back to D.C.
Monday morning still processing what happened.
They file at nine a.m.
By the time I'm briefed by my own attorneys, the injunction is already in place."
"That's the plan," Nora said.
"And the forty million?"
She pulled out a second document.
A term sheet.
A private equity firm called Meridian Capital, headquartered in Boston.
"They've been in discussions with Prescott for eight months.
The deal is contingent on Prescott demonstrating clear ownership of the wound-healing film patents.
Without those patents, the valuation drops by two-thirds.
The deal dies."
I looked at the term sheet.
Ethan's name was listed as a co-presenter in the investor meetings.
I tapped the page.
"He was in every meeting."
"Six of the eight," Nora said.
"He presented your research as jointly developed.
He used your data, your trial results, your chemical formulas.
He stood in front of those investors and described your work as ours."
The café was quiet around us.
A couple at the next table were looking at photos on a phone, laughing softly.
"My father always said Ethan was the one with the business instincts," I said.
"That I was too focused on the science to understand the commercial side."
"He was right that Ethan understood the commercial side," Nora said.
"He just left out the part where Ethan was planning to use it against you."
I closed the folder.
"What do we do Monday morning?"
Nora folded her hands on the table.
"We file first.
I have a motion ready.
We go in at seven-thirty, before Halcourt opens their doors.
We file an emergency declaration of sole ownership with supporting documentation — your original contracts, the IP assignment exclusions, the patent registration records.
We ask for an immediate injunction blocking any transfer or licensing claim."
"Can we get it?"
"With what we have?" She met my eyes.
"Yes."
I sat back.
"There's one more thing," Nora said.
She reached into the folder and pulled out a single printed email.
She slid it across the table.
It was from Ethan.
Sent to Richard four months ago.
*She'll never see it coming.
She trusts all of us too much.
That's always been her weakness.*
I read it twice.
I set it down carefully, the way you set something down when you don't trust your own hands.
"Keep that," Nora said quietly.
"You'll want it later."
I picked it up and folded it once and put it in my coat pocket.
Outside the terminal windows, the runway lights blinked in slow, steady pulses.
My phone buzzed.
A text from Chloe.
*Maddie, please.
Can we just talk?
Just the two of us.
Before anything happens.*
I stared at it for a long moment.
Then I put the phone away and picked up the folder.
May you like
There was nothing left to say to Chloe tonight.
But Monday morning, there would be plenty to say to everyone else.
