The Auditor Cut The Tape While Felix Watched The Door

Imani Ward met us at the clinic at nine on Wednesday.

She wore a plain navy jacket and carried a small scale, a laptop, and numbered evidence bags. Before we went in, she had Dolores sign permission to review her claim and discuss it with me.

"I'm here as a witness," I said. "I'm suspended."

"Then stay with me. Don't access anything on your own."

Felix met us beside the front desk.

"Dolores. We could have settled this with a call."

"We tried calls," she said.

He turned to Imani.

"This employee is under review for missing work. I wouldn't put weight on her account."

Imani looked at my empty hands.

"I'll put weight on records. Where can we sit?"

We used the fitting room. Felix chose the chair closest to the door.

Imani photographed the parcel, weighed it, and read its tracking number into her notes. Dolores described its delivery and showed Beth's supply message.

"Do you agree this tape appears unbroken?" Imani asked Felix.

"I don't pack boxes."

"That wasn't my question."

He leaned forward, looked, and said yes.

Imani cut the tape.

Inside were two adhesive wipes, a bottle of cleaner, and a folded care sheet. No ear. No protective case. No custom piece of any kind.

Dolores sat back.

"My memory seems fine."

Felix spread his hands.

"A shipping error. These things happen."

Imani placed the supplies beside the claim printout.

"This tracking number supports your certification of completed delivery. You were paid $18,400. Where is the device?"

"Uzma was responsible for production."

"Where is the signed final fitting record?"

"In the system."

Imani asked him to retrieve it while she watched. He brought up a page bearing Dolores's name and a small, looped signature.

Dolores bent toward the screen.

"That's my name from the glue order."

Felix smiled sadly.

"You may not remember every form."

"Don't do that again."

Her voice stayed level. It made the room feel smaller.

She opened a photograph on her phone. It showed the paper she had signed for an adhesive refill months before. The same loop crossed the printed line in the same place.

Imani saved both documents for review.

"A matching signature image needs investigation," she said. "I'm not making a final finding in this room."

Then she asked for the casting record.

Felix pointed toward the workroom.

"She keeps all that. Some private system."

"Numbered casts," I said. "And work tickets your office approved."

"An artist's notebook isn't a billing record."

"No," I said. "It tells you whether I made the thing you billed."

His smile went away.

Beth appeared at the door with a folder.

"Two more patients came," she said. "Mrs. Serrano told them she'd be here. They asked me to print their shipping receipts."

Imani stood.

"Have they signed permission for us to review their records?"

"They're filling it out now."

Felix rose too.

"We can't have a crowd. These are private medical matters."

"Then we'll see them one at a time," Imani said.

The first man had brought a small mailer containing a cleaning kit. The second patient had kept a delivery photo and the unopened box itself. Both had paid $800 deposits for replacement devices. Both were still waiting.

The man held his empty case in both hands.

"I thought maybe I hadn't explained what I needed," he said.

"You explained it," I told him.

Imani asked him to give his account in his own words. I moved my chair back and let him speak. His case had a worn patch where his thumb rested. He had carried it to every appointment, hoping to take something home inside it.

Their claims listed new impressions, fittings, and completed delivery.

I watched Felix rub the arm of his chair with one thumb.

Three patients now. Six paid replacement claims. A total of $110,400.

Imani requested a full set of records under the clinic's insurer contract. She also sent a written notice that files and physical work had to be preserved.

"This needs more than a routine inspection," she told him.

He looked at me.

"You've made it impossible for this business to survive."

I thought of Dolores being told to pay another $1,200 for a better artist.

"It could survive sending the ears people paid for."

Outside, Jonah called. He had read my agreement.

"Your custody clause has teeth," he said. "But we need to act before anything moves. Is there a sale date?"

"He only said buyer."

Beth came through the clinic doors carrying a notice Felix had told her to post.

She held it so I could read it without touching her phone or her files.

FINAL PATIENT HOURS: FRIDAY. EQUIPMENT COLLECTION: SATURDAY, 7 A.M.

At the bottom, in small print, the sale included all molds, models, and production records.