"I need to use the lavatory," I said, my voice deliberately tight, letting him believe I was on the verge of tears.
Brad smiled gently. "Take your time. We land in forty minutes. I’ll need your verbal agreement before we meet the client for dinner tonight."
He shifted his knees into the aisle, forcing me to squeeze past him. I kept my eyes on the carpet, grabbing my phone from my purse under the seat as I moved.
I walked down the narrow aisle, steadying myself on the overhead bins as the plane encountered a patch of mild turbulence. I locked the heavy folding door of the forward lavatory. The small space smelled of chemical sanitizer. I braced my hands on either side of the tiny metal sink, staring at my pale reflection in the mirror. My pulse was hammering against my throat.
I didn't cry. I didn't have time to cry. I pulled out my phone and tapped my credit card against the screen to purchase the premium in-flight Wi-Fi.
The connection was painfully slow. I watched the blue loading bar crawl across the top of my screen as I navigated to the Chicago Women's Health patient portal. I typed in my password, answered my two-factor authentication prompt, and accessed my dashboard.
I clicked on the Document History tab. It took twenty seconds to load.
There it was. An entry dated yesterday at 2:15 PM. Status: Fulfilled. Destination: External Fax.
I tapped the entry to view the authorized request form. The PDF rendered line by line. It was a standard third-party HIPAA release document, demanding a full export of Maya Jenkins’s obstetrical records.
I zoomed in on the bottom of the page, my breath catching in my throat.
There was my signature, rendered in blue ink on the patient consent line. But it wasn't a wet signature. It was perfectly uniform, exactly scaled, and centered perfectly on the dotted line. I knew that exact digital image. It was my secure corporate signature stamp, the encrypted file I kept on the firm's server to mass-approve vendor invoices.
I didn't authorize this. The only other person with override access to my digital signature file was the managing partner of my division.
Brad hadn't just bribed someone or charmed a receptionist. He had logged into the firm’s secure server, applied my digital signature to a forged medical release form, and faxed it to my doctor from the corporate office to make it look like I was transferring my own records to HR. It was a federal crime, committed on company servers, using company equipment.
He thought he was untouchable because he was a partner. He thought I would be too panicked about losing my job to question how he got the file.
I took three distinct, high-resolution screenshots of the forged release form, making sure the timestamp and the digital signature ID code were fully visible in the frame. I emailed the images to my personal encrypted drive and deleted the sent receipt from my phone.
The evidence was locked down, but it wasn't enough to simply have the screenshots. I needed to prove Brad possessed the physical file, that he was the one holding it over my head.
I unlocked the lavatory door and walked back down the aisle. The cabin crew was moving through First Class, collecting the last of the glassware as the captain announced our initial descent into Seattle-Tacoma International Airport.
Brad had put his tray table away. He was typing an email on his tablet. The manila envelope was no longer sitting out in the open. He had tucked it into the side pocket of his leather briefcase, which was sitting upright on the floor between his polished dress shoes. The top flap of the envelope, bearing the blue medical logo and the red CONFIDENTIAL stamp, was clearly visible.
I slid back into my window seat. "Did you review the severance numbers?" he asked, not looking up from his screen.
"I'm thinking about it," I said quietly.
I leaned down, pretending to adjust the strap of my own bag under the seat in front of me. I angled my phone toward his feet. The cabin lights were still dim. I checked that my flash was disabled. I tapped the screen to focus on the red stamp and the distinctive brass buckle of Brad’s custom briefcase.