I folded Julian's jacket over a chair where no glass had fallen. My heels had begun to cut into my feet hours earlier, so I removed them and set them together beneath it. My wrist still hurt, but I could hold the microphone.
I crossed the stage barefoot, stepping around the broken projector, and inserted a silver USB drive into the isolated backup system. Julian's team had preserved that circuit. A file directory replaced the photographs.
The first folder contained dated purchase orders and wire transfers from Mark's offshore shell corporation to a boutique pharmaceutical supplier. *Lorazepam* was highlighted on each invoice beside the matching account number.
“For the past five years, my husband has been poisoning me.”
The ballroom went quiet enough for the surviving projector fan to
