Then she gestured toward the room.

“You should probably step inside,” she said quietly, “so I can show you.”

She crossed to a wooden cabinet near the window and drew out a thick blue envelope, sealed inside a clear plastic sleeve to protect it.

She brought it to the table and laid out its contents: photographs, printed emails, safety logs, handwritten notes, copies of official construction records — a small, meticulous archive, assembled and guarded by someone who had understood, for a long time, that it was the only protection she had.

“My late husband was a site supervisor for Stanford Development,” Lianna said, shifting the baby on her hip.