Cordell had watched that confidence in men before, and he had learned that it was not always an act; sometimes it was a genuine belief, bone-deep, that the rules were things that happened to other people.

Fenwick had that belief.

You could hear it in how little he lowered his voice, how certain he was that this was a temporary indignity.

He did not yet understand — would not understand for months, perhaps not until the courtroom — that he had finally done a thing that the charm could not reach, in front of the one witness the charm could not work on, and that a sealed envelope timestamped 4:17 does not care how good your coat is.

He was still talking, still reasonable, still certain, as they walked him out into the rain.

Across the room the paramedics were easing Livia onto a stretcher; her eyes were heavy and her breathing shallow, but they had her stable, they had already begun the care she needed, and the senior medic caught Cordell’s eye and gave him a small nod that meant she’s going to be all right. Junia walked beside the stretcher with her fingers locked around her sister’s, and would not let go, and no one made her.