Read Chapter 31: The Research

The USB drive sat between them on the kitchen counter like a piece of unexploded ordnance. Jazz had wiped down the surface twice, rearranged the salt and pepper shakers, and still hadn't touched it.

"Are we going to look at it or stare at it until it sprouts legs?" Tom asked, leaning against the fridge with his arms crossed.

Jazz shot him a look. "I'm trying to figure out what we're looking for before we open it. Priya said this would make our current crisis look minor. That's not exactly a warm fuzzy."

"Maya could help us parse the technical data if it's encrypted—" Tom started, and Jazz caught the way his jaw tightened on the name.

"Tom. We've been over this. Maya is a business contact. Nothing more."

"I know. I just—" He stopped, ran a hand through his hair. "Forget it. Let's just look at the damn thing."

Jazz plugged the drive into her laptop. The folder structure was simple: one folder labeled "EVIDENCE," another labeled "FOR_JAZZ_ONLY." She clicked the first one.

Emails. Dozens of them, chronological, spanning eight months. The earliest were mundane—meeting requests, project updates, the normal hum of startup life at what used to be their shared company. But around month three, the tone shifted.

*"Priya—we've reviewed your mother's file. The insurance contract has several clauses that appear to affect your eligibility for continued coverage. Perhaps we should discuss this privately before it impacts her treatment schedule."*

The sender was a lawyer named Harold Finch, whose signature block listed him as counsel for Vikram Shah Holdings.

"Jesus," Tom breathed, moving closer. His shoulder brushed Jazz's as he leaned in to read. "They were threatening her through her mother's medical care."

"Keep reading."

The next email was worse. *"Your current employment arrangement is non-compliant with several provisions of your agreement. We have enclosed a revised schedule of obligations. Failure to comply may result in immediate termination—and you know what that means for your mother's supplemental coverage."*

"Non-compete as a weapon," Jazz said softly. "They weren't just making her sign away her right to work elsewhere. They made her sign away her right to have a sick parent."

Tom was quiet for a moment. Then: "She was never a mole. She was a hostage."

Jazz nodded, throat tight. "I thought she'd sold us out for money or opportunity. I was so angry at her, Tom. I said things—"

"She didn't tell us."

"That doesn't make it better. She was suffering alone, trying to protect her mother, and I made her feel like a traitor." Jazz's voice cracked. "We all did."

Tom's hand found her shoulder, squeezed once. "We didn't know. And now we do. So what do we do with that?"

Jazz clicked into the second folder. Inside were scanned documents—medical bills, insurance claim denials, and a single PDF marked "MEMORANDUM OF UNDERSTANDING" between Vikram Shah Holdings and Priya's mother's care facility.

"Read the fine print," Jazz said, scrolling. "This isn't just a non-compete. It's a non-disparagement clause, a non-disclosure agreement, and a financial arrangement that ties her mother's care to her continued silence about 'proprietary information acquired during her tenure at prior employer.'"

"Including the patent data," Tom said slowly. "Including the documents that prove Daniel stole the original voice-recognition architecture."

Jazz looked up at him. "If we can show that Vikram Shah Holdings coerced her into silence and profited from information she was forced to share, the entire basis of their ownership claim collapses. They didn't acquire the patent legitimately. They extorted it."

"Extortion's a strong word."

"Look at the emails again. Threats to pull her mother's coverage if she didn't comply with their 'information requests.' That's not a business arrangement. That's leverage."

Tom was already pacing the small kitchen. "So we have a path. We need Priya to testify—publicly, under oath—that she was coerced into sharing the original patent documents. That she never intended to harm the company, that she was acting under duress."

"Which means we need to find her," Jazz said. "She said she wanted to meet in person. She said what she has to share makes our current crisis look minor."

"Where is she now?"

Jazz checked her phone. "She's not answering. But she mentioned a place in her message—her mother's care facility in Ealing. She said she spends evenings there after work."

"After work at Vikram's company."

"Exactly. She's still inside the machine, gathering evidence while pretending to play their game." Jazz stood, grabbing her jacket. "We need to go now. Eleanor's deadline is—" She glanced at the clock. "Under three hours."

They took the Tube to Ealing, sitting close in the corner of the carriage, shoulders pressed together. Tom kept his voice low. "What if she refuses? She's still dependent on Vikram for her mother's coverage. Testifying could cost her everything."

"Then we find another way to cover the bills." Jazz's voice was firm. "We bootstrap, we take on consulting work, we do whatever it takes. She didn't abandon us, Tom. She protected us as best she could from inside. We don't get to abandon her now."

Tom was quiet for a long moment. The train rattled through the dark tunnel between stations. "You're really something, you know that?"

Jazz looked at him. "What do you mean?"

"When you could walk away from this mess, you dig deeper. When you could blame Priya for the chaos she caused, you're planning to fund her mother's medical care." He shook his head slowly. "I spent years thinking you were cold and ruthless. But you're not. You're the most loyal person I've ever met."

Jazz's throat tightened. The secret kiss hung between them, unspoken but present. "You're not so bad yourself, Okafor's-not-so-great-rival."

He grinned, and for a moment things felt almost normal. Then the train pulled into Ealing Broadway, and the moment dissolved.

The care facility was a modest red-brick building tucked behind a row of shops. Jazz gave the receptionist Priya's name, and after a tense five minutes, a door at the end of the hallway opened.

Priya looked thinner than Jazz remembered. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her usually immaculate hair was pulled into a hasty knot. She wore scrubs, like she'd been helping with patient care.

"You came," Priya said quietly. "I wasn't sure you would."

"Of course we came." Jazz stepped forward, then stopped, uncertain. "I... I owe you an apology. For what I said at the awards. For assuming you'd betrayed us. That was wrong."

Priya's lip trembled. "You weren't wrong to be angry. I did share information. I did sign that non-compete. I did—"

"You were coerced," Tom interrupted. "We read the emails. Vikram Shah Holdings held your mother's medical care hostage. That's not betrayal—that's survival."

Priya's eyes filled with tears. "I wanted to tell you. Every single day. But they monitor my accounts, my phone. My mother—" She broke off, pressing a hand to her mouth.

"We know." Jazz's voice was gentle. "And we're going to fix it. But we need your help. We need you to testify—publicly—about what they did."

Priya's face drained of color. "If I do that, they'll pull her coverage. The supplemental insurance is the only thing keeping her alive. The NHS waitlist is eighteen months for the procedure she needs. I can't—"

"Let us handle the coverage," Jazz said firmly. "We'll find a way. Grants, crowdfunding, private donors. We'll make it happen. But Priya—what they're doing isn't just illegal. It's evil. And they're about to use that stolen patent to destroy everything we built. Everything you helped build."

Priya stared at her for a long moment. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. "There's more," she said. "Something I haven't told anyone. Not even you."

She turned the screen toward them. On it was a video—time-stamped, dated six months ago. Vikram Shah himself, speaking to a lawyer in his office.

*"Make sure the non-compete is ironclad. I don't care what it takes—threats, intimidation, whatever works to keep her in line. That patent is worth millions, and I'm not letting a junior engineer's conscience sink this deal."*

Jazz's blood ran cold. "You recorded your boss admitting to coercion."

Priya nodded. "I've been waiting for the right moment to use it. But if I testify *and* I produce this video, they won't just lose the patent claim. They'll face criminal investigation. Vikram could go to prison."

Tom let out a low whistle. "Priya. That's not evidence of coercion. That's a nuclear warhead."

"Which is why I need you to promise me something." Priya looked between them, her eyes fierce. "If I do this—if I put everything on the line—you win. You beat them. And you make sure my mother never misses a single treatment. Ever."

Jazz reached out and took Priya's hands. "You have my word."

Priya looked at Tom. He nodded slowly. "Word."

"Then I'll do it." Priya's voice shook, but her gaze was steady. "When's the hearing?"

Jazz's phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen: Eleanor Vance. The deadline. She silenced it.

"Thirty hours," Jazz said. "And Eleanor's about to run her story in three. We have to move fast."

Priya's mother called from down the hallway—a weak, querulous voice. Priya flinched, then straightened. "I'll meet you at the hearing. I need to explain things to my mother first—she doesn't know what I've done. What I've been doing."

"Will she be okay with it?"

Priya's smile was thin and sad. "She was a union organiser in Mumbai for fifteen years. She'll be proud." She paused. "She'll also insist on coming to watch."