Freeman's suicide dominated news cycles for days. The narrative evolved rapidly: renowned surgeon takes own life amid allegations... evidence reveals years of sexual assaults... hospital administrators implicated in cover-up... victims coming forward...
With each revelation, public outrage intensified. Eastbrook Medical Center faced protests, lawsuits, and a crisis of confidence. The board chairman resigned amid allegations he had personally buried complaints against Freeman. Two department heads took sudden "leaves of absence" when emails revealed their knowledge of Freeman's behavior.
The system, for once, seemed to be working—exposing not just the primary predator but the network that enabled him.
In the midst of this unfolding scandal, I maintained my dual existence. By day, Detective Blackwood methodically built cases against hospital administrators who had protected Freeman. By night, I prepared to resume my pursuit of Gregory Walsh.
Thursday evening found me once again transformed into Katherine Pierce—blonde wig, carefully applied makeup, designer dress. The Oak Room was busy, finance types unwinding after market close. Walsh was already at the bar when I arrived, nursing what appeared to be his second scotch.
"Katherine," he greeted, standing as I approached. Relief and irritation warred in his expression. "I was beginning to think you were ghosting me."
"Work complications," I explained with a practiced smile. "You know how it is."
"Indeed." His eyes traveled over me appreciatively. "Worth the wait, though."
I allowed him to order me a martini, affecting the slightly flirtatious but professional demeanor that Katherine had established in previous encounters. Walsh wasted no time moving closer, his knee touching mine as he leaned in.
"I've been thinking about you," he admitted, voice lowered intimately. "More than is probably appropriate."
"Is that so?" I sipped my drink, maintaining eye contact.
"I have a room," he continued, confidence growing at my lack of resistance. "Upstairs. The hotel was convenient for drinks, and I thought... hoped..."
"That's rather presumptuous," I noted, though without real objection.
He smiled, predator sensing prey. "Life's too short for excessive caution. We both know there's something here."
The irony nearly made me laugh. Walsh believed himself the hunter, unaware he was the hunted. He mistook my calculated responses for genuine interest, my strategic conversational pathways for spontaneous connection.
"Perhaps you're right," I conceded, finishing my drink. "One more here, then we'll see."
Walsh signaled the bartender enthusiastically. As he did, I carefully added the specialized powder to his nearly empty glass—undetectable, untraceable, designed to enhance the effects of alcohol while creating mild disorientation. Not enough to incapacitate, but sufficient to lower inhibitions, impair judgment.
When his fresh drink arrived, he finished the old one without noticing the slightly gritty residue at the bottom. The compound would take approximately twenty minutes to take effect—creating the perfect window for escalation to the hotel room.
We made small talk about market conditions, Walsh growing slightly more animated, less guarded as the minutes passed. When he suggested moving upstairs again, I agreed with calculated reluctance—just enough resistance to maintain the illusion he was persuading me rather than walking into my carefully constructed trap.
Room 718 was a corner suite with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Walsh used the keycard with slightly fumbling fingers—the compound affecting his fine motor skills. Inside, the room featured the standard luxury hotel layout—perfect for my purposes. Entryway with closet and bathroom, opening to the main room with king bed and sitting area.
"Nightcap?" Walsh offered, moving to the minibar.
"Just water for me," I replied. "I think you've had enough as well."
He laughed, abandoning the minibar to approach me. "You're probably right. I feel... unusually relaxed."
"Stressful week?" I suggested, keeping distance between us as I moved toward the windows.
"Mmm. Nothing I can't handle." His confidence remained intact despite his slightly slurred speech. "Come here, Katherine."
I turned, studied him with a calculated shift in demeanor. Gone was Katherine's professional flirtation, replaced with colder assessment. The change registered in Walsh's expression—confusion, then the first flicker of unease.
"You don't look well, Gregory," I observed. "Perhaps you should sit."
He frowned, swaying slightly. "I'm fine. Just a bit... what was in that drink?"
"Which one?" I asked mildly. "The one you ordered for me, hoping to lower my inhibitions? Or yours?"
His eyes narrowed, processing this accusation through his increasingly foggy mind. "What are you talking about?"
"Sit down, Gregory." My tone hardened. "We have things to discuss."
Confusion gave way to the first real stirrings of fear. Good. Fear was instructive. Fear created vulnerability, stripped away pretense. Walsh needed to understand vulnerability to grasp the consequences of his actions.
"Who are you?" he demanded, though he complied with my instruction, sinking heavily onto the edge of the bed.
I removed a small recording device from my purse, activating it before setting it on the bedside table. Then I reached up and slowly removed the blonde wig, revealing my natural dark hair beneath.
"My name isn't important," I replied calmly. "What matters is why you're here."
Walsh stared, disorientation compounded by this transformation. "What... what is this? Some kind of scam? Blackmail?"
"Justice," I corrected. "For Annabelle Wilson. Rebecca Torres. Emily Chambers. Do those names mean anything to you?"
His face blanched beneath his expensive tan. Names he likely never expected to hear again—women whose complaints had been silenced by large settlements and aggressive NDAs. Women whose traumas had been buried beneath legal paperwork and generous payments from Walsh's firm.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he attempted, though his voice lacked conviction.
"Three women, three settlements," I continued, circling him slowly. "Sexual harassment, assault, creating hostile work environments. All paid to disappear. All threatened with career destruction if they spoke publicly."
"Those cases were resolved legally," he protested. "No admission of guilt."
I laughed softly. "Yes, the legal system worked precisely as designed—protecting men like you while silencing your victims. But there are other systems, Gregory. Other forms of justice."
He attempted to stand, limbs unusually heavy from the compound. I pressed him back with minimal effort.
"What do you want?" Fear had fully replaced arrogance now. "Money? I can pay."
"Confession," I replied simply, gesturing to the recording device. "The full truth of what you did to those women. And others I may not know about."
"And if I refuse?"
My smile was cold. "You won't."
For the next hour, as the compound maintained him in a state of compliant disorientation, Gregory Walsh confessed. To harassment that escalated to assault. To leveraging his position to silence victims. To creating systems within his firm that protected predatory behavior by senior partners while discouraging women from reporting.
The details matched what my research had uncovered, but hearing them in his own voice—sometimes defensive, occasionally boastful, ultimately resigned—provided the confirmation justice required.
When he finished, I retrieved the recording device.
"What happens now?" Walsh asked, voice small. The compound was beginning to wear off, leaving him with the dawning realization of what he had revealed.
"Now you have a choice," I explained, removing an envelope from my purse and placing it beside him. "Inside are copies of your confession, along with documentation of your various assaults. Option one: you resign from your firm immediately, citing personal reasons. You make anonymous restitution payments to your victims—I've included account details. You never work in finance again."
"And option two?" he asked warily.
"This recording and evidence package goes to every news outlet in the city. To your wife. To your firm's board and clients. Your life as you know it ends."
"You're blackmailing me."
"I'm offering an alternative to the justice you deserve," I corrected. "One that provides some restitution to your victims without the trauma of public proceedings. Your choice."
Fear gave way to calculation in his eyes—assessing options, seeking escape. "What's to stop me from claiming this confession was coerced? That you drugged me?"
"First, any drug test will be negative within hours. The compound is untraceable. Second," I leaned closer, voice hardening, "if you attempt to avoid consequences, if you fail to comply with every requirement in that envelope, there will be no third chance. I will find you again. And our next meeting won't be as nice as this.