My mother walked in. She’d traded the casual sweater for a razor-sharp charcoal suit, and she was flanked by a grim-faced city detective, the hospital’s Chief of Ophthalmology, and its Director of Legal Affairs.

Daniel blinked and stepped back. “What is this? Evelyn, why are you dressed like a corporate lawyer? What are these people doing here?”

Mother ignored him. She walked to the bedside table, reached into her blazer, and set her retired federal prosecutor’s badge — a heavy silver shield in leather — flat on the surface with a resonant clack.

Then she handed a flash drive to the detective.

“Because, Daniel,” she said, dropping the maternal warmth entirely, “unlike your attorney here, I know exactly how forensic evidence should be preserved for a felony indictment.”

The detective stepped forward and put a hand on Daniel’s shoulder. “Mr. Cross. I need you to step out into the hallway with me. Now.”