Aria reached slowly for the folded shirt on the bench. Both MPs tensed. She paused so they could see her hands.

Then she lifted the shirt with two fingers and exposed what she’d secured under it before dawn.

An envelope, sealed in a clear evidence sleeve. The label was plain.

Harlow’s name. Mercer’s initials. 0519 hours.

Forty-eight minutes before the shove.

Harlow saw it and lost whatever color he had left. “Sir,” he whispered. “You said there weren’t cameras in here.”