It had been sent to Curtis’s email address and copied to a second contact he had entered incorrectly.

I preserved it and gave it to the proper people.

What troubled me most was how ordinary the evidence looked.

No secret vault.

No dramatic confession.

Just dates, messages, and an appointment that never happened.

When I thought of what might have occurred if I’d accepted Curtis’s refusal one more time, I had to set the file down.

My mother found me staring at the wall.