It is redundancy.

It is making the truth exist in so many places at once that no single act, no seized device, no deleted account, no dead witness, can take it out of the world.

So I sent it to my attorney, who was bound to preserve it.

I sent it to a cloud only I could open.

And I sent it to my brother, who would walk into a district attorney’s office and put it on the desk himself if I could not.

By the time Beckett rolled over on that couch and settled into sleep, his own voice was already sitting, patient and multiplied, in three places he would never think to reach — and the plan he believed was airtight had, without his knowing it, already sprung its leak.