He was already at the door when I pulled in, pale and rigid, like he’d been waiting without breathing. He didn’t greet me. Didn’t offer anything. Just stepped aside.

Inside, his den smelled of paper and old tobacco. A single lamp cast a dim yellow light over a cluttered desk. A laptop sat open, screen glowing.

He closed the door behind me with care.

“Before you see this,” he said, voice rough, “you need to understand—I didn’t go looking. I swear.”

I nodded, but didn’t trust myself to speak.

He motioned to the chair. I stayed standing.

His hand hovered over the mouse, shaking.

“I know what it’s like,” he said quietly. “To trust someone completely. And then find out they were waiting for you to look away.”

He clicked.

The screen flickered, then steadied—my living room, grainy but unmistakable.

My sofa. My lamp. My table.

And Olivia Morrison, sitting stiffly at the edge of the couch.

Trevor beside her, relaxed. Smiling.

A blue folder open in front of them.

My folder.

The one I kept in my desk because Patricia used to say, “Important papers don’t belong where people can see them.”

My breath caught.

“I’m sorry, Vincent,” Warren said quietly.

On screen, Trevor reached into the folder and pulled out a document.

He laughed—soft, confident, casual.

Then he picked up a pen.

And signed my name.