FRAMED, page 1
Praise for Framed: A Thriller
“Original, clever, deftly written, and a simply riveting read...Framed showcases the author’s genuine flair for narrative-driven storytelling that fully engages the reader with every twist and turn. A consummate legal thriller...the stuff of which high-tension movies are made.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Grayhall’s prose is clean, precise, and emotionally intelligent. She writes with the clarity of a scientist and the empathy of a novelist...Readers who admired Erin Brockovich or John Grisham’s The Pelican Brief will find Framed equally gripping but more intimate.”
—San Francisco Book Review (5 stars)
“Patricia Grayhall’s thriller, Framed, delivers a pulse-pounding story that skillfully intertwines environmental corruption with a high-stakes bank robbery trial. With masterful pacing and a twist that will leave you breathless, Grayhall keeps readers guessing at every turn. The perfectly calibrated romantic tension adds another layer of complexity to this intricate plot, making it impossible to put down. A must-read for thriller fans!”
—Michelle Cox, author of The Henrietta and Inspector Howard series
“Gripping, timeless, and timely, Framed pulls readers into a world of deception, betrayal, and mortal danger...and doesn’t let them go until the very last twist.”
—Anastasia Zadeick, author of Blurred Fates
“Grayhall injects several surprising revelations—and a shocking twist at the end—that most won’t see coming...The story is brisk and lean...as these fully dimensional characters seek the truth.”
—BookLife Reviews
“Grayhall’s smooth, easy prose and the manner in which the two women navigate...secrets will keep readers rapt...A taut rendering of one woman’s fight against Big Oil.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A brilliant blend of medical and legal thriller...Grayhall does a masterful job at weaving the suspenseful plot...She delivers a page turner that keeps the reader guessing until the very last page, with a genius ending that does not disappoint.”
—Julie Hatch, author of The Very Best of Care
“Framed is a clever romp...packed with suspense, romance, and social relevance...and then just when you think you’ve reached the finale, the unexpected ending bowls you over.”
—Jude Berman, author of The Die
“This engaging and well-written novel, highlights what the law can do to right wrongs, and how it can be used as a weapon in the wrong hands.”
—Lori B. Duff, Esq., author of the Fischer at Law series
“Patricia Grayhall’s new thriller is a textbook example of a page-turner...The end has a surprising twist, even for me, an avid thriller reader.”
—Sophy Smythe, author of The Medical Code
“A thriller that a modern Agatha Christie might have written.”
—Marilyn Zimmerman, Esq., author of In Defense of Good Women
Copyright © 2026 Patricia Grayhall
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and specific other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please contact Rain City Press.
Published 2026
Print ISBN: 979-8-9937017-0-7
E-ISBN: 979-8-218-73553-1
Rain City Press
6830 NE Bothell Way, C155
Kenmore, WA 98028
Interior design by: Damonza Studio
Cover by: Damonza Studio
This novel is a work of fiction. The author’s imagination created the characters and narratives, and any resemblance to actual events, businesses, corporations, governments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
NO AI TRAINING: Without in any way limiting the author’s and publisher’s exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.
“We do not inherit the earth from our ancestors
but borrow it from our children.”
—Wendell Berry
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Author's Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
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Chapter 1
On Monday, June 17, 1985, Dr. Victoria Nelson’s descent from respected physician to accused felon began as an ordinary working day.
She approached her patient’s exam room and checked his intake sheet outside the door. Mark Evans. Twenty-five years old. Apprentice process engineer. Three children under five. Dizziness, sore throat, headaches. She sighed and closed her eyes, imagining lunchboxes packed at dawn and bedtime stories interrupted by headaches. He was the fourth patient from World Petrol she’d seen in a week. What was going on at that refinery?
Smiling, she entered the room, where a tall, slender young man stood to greet her. His youthful face was smooth, but his complexion was unnaturally pale, with dark circles under his eyes.
“Hello, Mr. Evans. I’m Dr. Nelson.”
She shook his clammy hand, roughened by work. “Please make yourself comfortable. I’d like to hear more about these headaches and dizziness you mentioned on your form.”
He sat down, and she took the chair opposite him, waiting.
Mark cleared his throat. “Well, ma’am, I’m learnin’ how to run and fix them distillation columns, compressors, and reactors. The operator usually calls me in to open the equipment when something springs a leak. The fumes that come off it? Lord, they tear up my nose and make my throat burn somethin’ fierce. Sometimes, I get so dizzy I can’t hardly stand straight. Feels like I’m gonna throw up. And yeah, I get headaches dang near every day.”
She nodded and leaned forward. “That sounds very difficult to tolerate. Do you use any respiratory protection or masks that help you breathe safely?”
“Yes, ma’am. We grab masks when we can, but they’re old as dirt and don’t seal right half the time. I can still smell them fumes comin’ off the columns. Honestly, I don’t think the operator likes me much. He always gives me the worst jobs.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry.” She’d heard this before and chafed at the company’s practice of giving the dirtiest jobs to the newest, lower-ranking hires. Like many others she’d treated, Mark was exposed to dangerous volatile organic compounds—benzene, toluene, xylene—and hydrogen sulfide and sulfur dioxide from crude oil. These chemicals weren’t only unpleasant but also posed serious health risks.
Her frustration rose. It was like hitting a locked door again and again. She’d seen quite a few patients like Mark in the past few months. She had plans for a laboratory that would enable her to measure their exposure directly in blood and urine samples, but the lab was nowhere near ready. When she spoke, though, her voice held no hint of frustration, professional to the core.
“We’ll discuss your work environment further, but first, let’s review your medical history to make sure we’re not missing any other factors that could contribute to your symptoms.”
After a detailed history and thorough examination, she said, “Mr. Evans, your symptoms are likely related to chemical exposure. The first approach would be to reduce your exposure to these toxins by using proper protective equipment, including a well-fitting respirator, appropriate gloves, and improved ventilation.”
Mark’s face dropped. “But . . . they . . .”
Her face softened. “I understand it may be difficult for you to ask. I’ll get things moving by contacting the plant’s industrial hygienist and helping you to open a workers’ compensation claim.”
Mark rubbed his face, and his forehead creased. “Now hold on, ma’am. That could stir up some trouble for me. I don’t wanna go makin’ waves with the company and causin’ a fuss. I ain’t got no fancy engineerin’ degree. They’re trainin’ me for this job, and it pays way better than anything else ’round here. I have three little ones at home, and I can’t afford to lose this job.”
She held his gaze. “This isn’t about causing trouble, Mark. It’s about ensuring you’re there for your kids in twenty years.” She watched his face register the implications.
“So, it’s serious?”
“It could if it continues. But you’re here. We’ve got you.” She smiled reassuringly. “What would help you feel safe in taking the next steps? You can hold off on filing a workers’ comp claim for now.”
Mark let out a sigh. “I’m not sure. What do you think I should do?”
“Okay, you can ask your health and safety staff for two things: a respirator fit-tested for your face shape and size that only you use, and PVA gloves. They provide better protection against chemical absorption than nitrile gloves.”
Mark hunched his shoulders. “Alright then, ma’am. Could you write that down for me? I’ll give it to my boss.”
Tori nodded. “Absolutely. I’d also like to see you again in about a month to check your progress. Remember, your health matters—not just for you, but for those three little ones who depend on you.”
Mark bit his lip and met her gaze. “Yeah, I know. Thanks.”
*
Dr. Nelson was standing in the hallway scanning her next patient’s thick chart when she startled at the sudden weight of Dr. Jensen’s hand on her shoulder. He was a small man, but the medical director’s touch felt heavy.
“Do you have a moment?”
His jaw was set, and his tone made it clear this wasn’t a request. Her stomach knotted.
“Sure,” she managed, the word barely escaping her throat. Encounters with Jensen were rarely positive.
He ushered her into an empty exam room. As the door closed behind them, its click echoed like a prison cell locking.
“I’ve had another complaint,” he announced, his slate-gray eyes drilling into hers with a cold intensity. “This time from Dodge Chemical. They claim that their workers’ compensation claims have doubled since you arrived, with most of them being medically supported by you.”
Her heart raced, and she felt a moment of panic. Then, her patients’ faces flashed through her mind, giving her courage. She straightened.
“They’re all legitimate claims,” she countered in a steady voice. “Dodge is notorious for neglecting worker health and safety.”
He waved his hand, contemptuous and dismissive, as if swatting away an annoying insect. “That’s their business. We hired you to serve the area’s major employers by conducting executive exams, administering drug tests, and providing medical surveillance. We did not hire you to antagonize those companies by increasing their workers’ compensation costs.”
That’s not what I thought when you hired me.
This wasn’t the mission she’d signed up for. The gulf between her and Jensen yawned. She considered medicine a service, but he thought it was an industry. She felt a burning sense of betrayal in her chest and struggled to keep her voice firm. “What about serving the patients?”
He ignored her, moved to the door, and yanked it open. “Dial it back,” he commanded over his shoulder. His lack of response to her questions screamed louder than any rebuke could have. She was left alone with her principles and the crushing weight of an impossible choice.
Chapter 2
Tori’s heart hammered against her ribs, and she struggled to breathe normally. Another panic attack. Each breath was more elusive than the last. With trembling fingers, she fumbled for the small bottle in her pocket. She tipped out an orange pill and tossed it back without water. It scraped down her dry throat. Only two left, but she wouldn’t refill it. Her anxiety had been a constant companion lately, a shadow that grew longer and darker with each passing day. Her hefty responsibilities—running a clinical practice, trying to establish a toxicology lab, and racing to complete a cancer study in communities poisoned by petrochemical giants—pressed on her shoulders like concrete slabs. She was already sinking under the weight, even without the medical director threatening her and telling her to stop advocating for her patients and doing the very essence of her job.
She closed her eyes and drew in several measured breaths, centering herself before pushing open the patients’ exam room door to see her last patient of the day. Her heart sank at the sight of the man who greeted her.
This retired petrochemical worker had been fighting asbestos-related lung disease under her care for over a year. He was barely more than a skeleton draped in loose skin. His complexion had the ashen pallor of approaching death, and his once-full cheeks were now concave hollows beneath sharp cheekbones. Despite his deteriorating state, Mr. Taylor’s eyes brightened at her entrance, his cracked lips forming a smile.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Taylor.” Tori’s voice was gentle as she settled beside him. Her hand rested briefly on his shoulder, mere bone beneath her fingers. “How are you feeling?”
“Not great,” he rasped, each word seeming to cost him precious energy. Once robust from years of shouting over machinery, his voice had faded to a whisper. “I can’t make it up the stairs to my bedroom. We moved the bed to the living room.”
He rasped a wet cough. Tori let the truth remain unspoken. His decades of smoking had only accelerated what the asbestos had wrought.
“I’m sorry,” she said, maintaining eye contact that conveyed more compassion than words. “It sounds like it’s time to set you up with home oxygen.”
Tori removed the stethoscope from around her neck and motioned for him to lean forward in his chair. She lifted his shirt and could count each vertebra and rib. As he breathed, the crackling sounds that filled her ears were like cellophane being crushed. “Sounds about the same,” she noted, keeping her voice neutral.
When she snapped his recent X-ray onto the viewing box, the irregular white mass that invaded the dark space of his lung leaped out at her like a predator, crouching and waiting. She inhaled deeply, steadying herself before turning to deliver the unwelcome news.
Across from him, she leaned close, her hand resting on his bony knee. “Your chest X-ray shows a growth on the lining of your lungs. Given your many years of asbestos exposure and smoking, it may well be cancer. I’ll refer you to a pulmonologist for a needle biopsy to determine the exact cause.”
Mr. Taylor’s eyes flickered. He shook his head slowly. “I don’t want a needle biopsy.” He straightened as if to face an unseen enemy. “I’m a goner anyway.”
A knot formed in Tori’s chest. This was a man who, despite his suffering, never failed to bring her homemade cookies and share a corny joke during his visits.
“Are you sure, Mr. Taylor? Do you want to think it over?”
“No, ma’am,” he said with unexpected firmness. “But will you talk to my wife and me together? Tell us what to expect. I’m not spending my last days in a hospital.”
The medical director and his warnings be damned. Her resolve hardened.
“Of course,” she promised. “I’ll do everything in my power to ensure that workers’ compensation covers your care, regardless of your decision.” She appraised the trembling but defiant man before her and judged he needed to hear this. “And that your wife receives death benefits.”
*
Later, as twilight painted the sky a deep blue outside her window, Tori sat in the cramped office, finishing her dictation. The shrill ring of the telephone sliced through her thoughts.
“Dr. Nelson? This is Amy at the reception desk.”
Tori suppressed a flicker of irritation. Who could need her now? Her patients were gone, and all she wanted was to leave the clinic and dive into her cancer research. She sighed and pressed the phone closer to her ear. “Yes?”
Amy’s voice dropped to an urgent whisper. She sounded frightened. “There are two men in suits here. They say they need to see you immediately.”
Tori’s pulse spiked, and her legs turned to jelly as she forced herself to take a deep breath, as dread filled her. Was the medical director firing her? Had he called security to march her out in disgrace?
The elevator descent took forever. When the doors finally slid open, two men stood waiting, still as statues. One taller than the other, older, and exuding an air of authority, stepped forward and flashed a badge.
