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Brock. His footsteps approach slowly, then stops. Eventually he sits next to me, close enough that our shoulders touch, and none of us moves away. The silence stretches — comfortable, necessary — until Brock says, "Talk to me."

The words are gentle, dangerously so. I snicker once and the sound breaks halfway through. "What do you want me to say?"

"The truth."

I move my gaze to the floor, then to my hands, then finally to him. The concern in his eyes nearly destroys me. " No idea on how much more I can lose." The confession leaves before I can suppress it and Brock stays silent, listening and waiting. "People I know won't even walk into the bakery anymore," I continue, my throat tightening. "People I grew up with."

Brock's hand finds mine. The simple contact steadies me — slightly, not enough, but enough to keep talking. "I keep thinking about what happens if they're right."

His eyebrows draw together. "They aren't."

"What if they win anyway?" The question hangs between us, ugly and honest and terrifying, and Brock's grip tightens. "They won't." The certainty in his voice should comfort me, and part of me wants to let it. Another part is too exhausted, too hurt, too afraid, and the battle inside me must show on my face because Brock shifts closer.

"Look at me." I do, immediately, because it's Brock and his voice has become the one I listen to. "We're close," he says carefully. "We have evidence, we have a trail, and we have people covering their tracks." My attention sharpens and he notices, holding onto it — the tiny thread of hope keeping me upright.

Then his expression shifts. The investigator replaces the comforter, only slightly, enough. "I got another report this morning."

My stomach tightens. "What report?"

Brock studies me carefully, as though weighing how much to say, then reaches into his coat. Several papers appear — business filings, consulting records, financial summaries. I recognize some of them immediately, not all, but one name appears repeatedly throughout.

My pulse quickens. "No." The whisper escapes swiftly.

Brock says nothing. I continue staring, and the paperwork suddenly feels much heavier, much more dangerous, because the pattern is impossible to ignore now. The transportation company, the business connections, the financial records, the consulting work — everything keeps circling back. Everything.

Memories surface immediately, uninvited. Birthday parties, summer afternoons, shared secrets, years of friendship. The thought makes me feel sick. "No." The denial sounds weaker this time.

Brock stays beside me — steady, silent, present — and he doesn't push, doesn't tell me what to think, doesn't tell me what conclusion to reach. He simply lets me sit with it, which somehow makes it worse, because deep down part of me already knows.

The evidence is becoming impossible to ignore, and the realization hurts far more than any accusation ever could. I close my eyes briefly, then open them. The papers remain, the name remains, the truth remains.

The person destroying my life may not be a stranger at all. She may be someone I once trusted completely, and that knowledge settles in my chest like something breaking quietly, without drama, without noise — the worst kind of breaking there is.

24

BROCK

Only two witnesses show up out of the more than ten victims Theo's research uncovered — more than ten businesses, more than ten people who suffered financial losses through fraudulent filings, manipulated tax returns, fake lawsuits, and disappearing funds. Yet only two are willing to put their names on record.

Fear is a powerful thing.

The two witnesses sitting across from me look nervous enough to prove it. The first man keeps glancing toward the door, and the second woman flinches every time someone walks past the room. Neither reaction escapes my attention. I slide a statement form across the table.

"Tell me everything," I say.

The woman hesitates, then nods.

By the time both interviews wrap up, I have enough to confirm several pieces of Theo's findings — not enough to close the case, but enough to strengthen it. My phone vibrates against the table. A message from headquarters.

Report immediately.

No explanation, no context, just a direct order. Wonderful.

I gather the witness statements and head toward the front desk, where the secretary immediately reads my expression.

"You look happy," she remarks.

I place the folder in front of her. "Secure these."