I had a name now. Not just a number. Not a file tag. Not M12.
Eric Donner.
Thirty-six years old. Former construction foreman. Lived just outside of Cincinnati before Redwell relocated him with a carefully written non-disclosure agreement disguised as a clinical trial compensation package.
The moment I saw his name in that envelope Langford handed me, everything shifted.
He wasn't a statistic anymore. He was a man.
And I needed to find him before someone else made sure I couldn't.
Breach
The team didn't like what I was doing.
Not because they were disloyal — but because they were smart. And they knew I was stepping into something dangerous.
Rina was the first to push back.
"You're going after a subject under NDA," she said, arms folded, voice flat. "Even if he talks, anything he says could be tossed as inadmissible. You'll be building a narrative we can't use in court."
"I'm not looking for admissibility," I replied. "I'm looking for truth."
She stared at me.
"You say that like they're the same thing."
Max wasn't far behind. "Alister… this is past protocol. This isn't even discovery. This is you following leads like a detective, not counsel."
I leaned forward, resting my hands on the table.
"If Redwell erased this man, scrubbed him from the trials, altered budget paths to bury the records, and is now pretending he doesn't exist — then I don't care what hat I have to wear to get answers."
Tom glanced between us.
"Do we even know if he's willing to talk?"
"No," I said. "But I know I have to ask."
The Drive
I made the drive myself.
Didn't book a flight. Didn't send an intern. Didn't involve Max or Rina.
I left Boston under the cover of darkness and drove south, taking the interstate with nothing but my overnight bag, a printed map, and too many thoughts for company.
The drive gave me time to feel the pressure — the growing weight that had been sitting quietly in my chest since this case began.
Because it wasn't just about the facts anymore. It was about the cost.
For me. For Eric Donner. For everyone, Redwell had quietly bulldozed in their pursuit of pharmaceutical glory.
At some point after Hartford, the clouds rolled in and stayed. Low, moody, and grey — like the world knew what I was heading into and didn't approve.
Donner's Address
It was a plain house. Weathered porch. Peeling fence. A "Beware of Dog" sign that had probably outlived the dog.
No mailbox — just a rusted slot in the door and silence on the other side.
I stood there for a long moment before knocking.
One… two… three.
The door opened just a crack. A man peeked out.
Eric Donner looked older than thirty-six. Or maybe just worn. His left hand trembled slightly at his side.
"Yeah?"
"Mr. Donner," I said. "My name is Alister Crane. I'm a—"
"I know who you are."
He didn't open the door any wider.
"You're the lawyer Redwell hired."
"That's not entirely accurate anymore."
He stared at me.
"Then who are you today?"
I hesitated.
"I'm someone trying to stop them from doing to anyone else what they did to you."
That landed.
The door opened fully.
"Ten minutes," he said.
The Conversation
We sat at his kitchen table.
He didn't offer coffee. Didn't ask me to take off my coat. Just sat opposite me, arms crossed, his body language like a barricade.
He wasn't afraid. He was done.
"I signed their paperwork," he said. "Every damn page. NDA. Waiver. Hell, I didn't even read the last few. I just wanted out. Wanted to forget what happened in that room."
I didn't interrupt.
"They tested the drug on me for three weeks. The first five days were fine. Day six, I started feeling tightness in my jaw. Day eight, the tremors started. Day ten, I blacked out."
He looked down at his hand.
"I don't sleep much anymore. Feels like something's rattling inside my brain."
"Did Redwell ever acknowledge your symptoms?"
"They paid me more after I signed a new agreement. Called it a 'settlement for extended trial participation.' But I never agreed to extend. They just changed the dates."
"And the final report?"
"Didn't include me. I know. I asked for a copy and got some corporate summary bullshit. My name wasn't in it."
He met my eyes for the first time.
"I was erased, Mr. Crane. Like I never fucking existed."
I paused.
"Why are you talking to me now?" I asked.
Donner looked at the window, then back at me.
"Because Mercer tried," he said. "And I watched them rip her to pieces in the media. Said she was unstable. Bitter. Vindictive. But she was the only one who ever called me after the trial ended."
I felt something twist in my chest.
"She cared?"
He nodded. "She told me what they were doing. She said I might get a visit someday from someone on the inside — someone who still had a conscience."
I didn't know what to say.
"And now you're here," he added. "So either Mercer was right… or this is a full-circle trap."
"It's not a trap."
"I want that on the record," he said. "Because if something happens to me now — it'll be your name that shows up in the file."
He stood.
"This is all I'm giving you. Don't come back. Don't call."
I rose, quietly.
"Thank you," I said.
He didn't respond.
He just opened the door, nodded once, and waited.
I walked out, feeling like I'd borrowed someone else's memory for a moment — and now had to live with it.
Back at the Office
When I returned, the office was quiet.
Max was waiting. He'd seen the file I'd left behind — the NDA with Donner's name. He didn't ask questions, but I could tell he was holding something in.
"Langford called while you were out," he said.
I froze.
"He says he wants to meet. Again."
My hands tightened around the edge of my desk.
"Where?"
"He didn't say. Just that he'll find you."
I stared at the windows. The skyline. The city lights that didn't blink, no matter how many truths they buried.
Something in me had changed during that drive.
The man I was when I took this case — the man who still believed this was about clever motions and airtight arguments — he wasn't behind the wheel anymore.
Now, I knew the truth.
Redwell didn't need a lawyer.
They needed a clean conscience with a suit on.
And I was done playing that part.
At midnight, an envelope came.
Left on the floor inside my office door.
No knock this time.
Just a small, cream-colored package with a black seal on it.
Inside: a court filing. Sealed affidavit.
Anonymous.
And a printed image — a scan of an internal Redwell memo dated eighteen months prior.
Subject: RX-51 / Foreign Patents / Cross-Pharma Licensing Bridge.
A list of drugs.
A list of companies.
And at the bottom:
"Ensure Mercer is kept out of the non-domestic filing process."
There it was.
Subtle. Clinical.
But unmistakable.
Mercer had been cut out — because she was onto something global.
Not just trial corruption.
Not just one buried subject.
But something larger.
The Crack Widens
I sat in the dark.
The memo spread before me like a map I didn't know how to read yet.
Langford had warned me. Walk away. Stay in your lane.
But if I stayed in my lane, I'd be another name on a payroll full of silence.
And I couldn't do that anymore.
I couldn't unknow what I knew now.
The case had changed.
It wasn't about defending Redwell.
It was about surviving them.