Chapter 7: The Other Complainants
Richard Holt's office was on the fourth floor of a building that smelled like old carpet and photocopier toner.
He was in his fifties, wore a jacket that had seen better years, and had the particular stillness of someone who had listened to a great many difficult stories without flinching.
He poured coffee from a machine on the credenza and set a cup in front of me without asking.
"Thank you for coming," he said.
"You said there were other complainants."
"Four, at present.
Possibly five — I'm waiting on a confirmation." He opened a folder on the desk between us.
"The complaints span six years.
The earliest dates to 2018.
The most recent was filed eight weeks ago by a woman named Danielle Marsh."
"Dani filed a formal complaint?"
"She did.
She was also the one who provided your contact information, with the caveat that you may not yet be aware of the full scope." He looked at me steadily.
"Are you?"
"I've had a private investigator working for the past week.
I have a preliminary report."
He nodded, unsurprised.
"Then you know about the company structure."
"Corinne Hale has signing authority.
She's been on the filings since the beginning."
"Correct.
And in at least two of the earlier cases, the initial approach to the complainant was made through her.
She introduced Weston to a woman named Carol Finch in 2019 at a charity event she organized.
She introduced him to a woman named Paulette Reyes in 2020 through a mutual acquaintance she cultivated specifically for that purpose."
I set down my coffee cup.
"She was sourcing them," I said.
"That is one interpretation.
The interpretation I am currently building a case around." He turned a page in the folder.
"In each instance, the pattern is consistent.
A relationship is established.
Financial need is presented — always framed as temporary, always tied to the company, always accompanied by emotional pressure.
Funds are transferred.
The relationship either ends or the complainant discovers the deception independently.
No funds are returned."
"How much total?"
"Across all complainants including yourself, assuming your figure of a hundred and twelve thousand is accurate — approximately two hundred and thirty thousand dollars."
The number sat between us on the desk.
"What does this mean legally?" I said.
"It means I have enough to refer the matter to the district attorney's office.
It means that Weston Hale and potentially Corinne Hale are facing charges that could include wire fraud, obtaining money by false pretenses, and conspiracy." He paused.
"It also means that the next step is significantly easier if the complainants are willing to make formal statements."
"I'll make a statement."
"I was hoping you'd say that." He slid a document across the desk.
"I should tell you — Weston Hale does not yet know this investigation exists.
We've been careful.
But once formal charges are filed, he will know.
And in my experience, people in his position often become unpredictable at that point."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning he may attempt to contact you.
To negotiate.
To threaten.
To appeal to your feelings about the pregnancy." He looked at me directly.
"I want you to be prepared for that."
"I've already had the negotiation," I said.
"Last night at dinner."
"How did it go?"
"He grabbed my wrist when I stood up to leave."
Richard Holt's expression didn't change, but something behind his eyes did.
He made a note.
"I'd like you to document any further contact," he said.
"Texts, calls, in-person approaches.
Save everything."
"Already doing it."
He nodded.
"One more thing.
The fifth potential complainant — the woman I'm waiting on confirmation from.
Her name is Simone Archer."
The bracelet.
*Always — W.*
"She's willing to talk?" I said.
"She reached out to us, actually.
Two days ago.
She said she'd recently learned she wasn't alone and that changed things for her." He closed the folder.
"She asked if you were involved.
I told her I couldn't confirm that.
But she left her number and said if you ever wanted to speak to her directly, she'd welcome it."
I looked at the folder.
"Give me her number," I said.
He wrote it on a card and slid it across the desk.
I picked it up and put it in my bag next to my phone, which had been buzzing quietly and steadily for the past forty minutes.
May you like
All Weston.
None of them answered.
