The Will sat on my kitchen table like a confession no one wanted to explain.
Daniel’s name was printed neatly at the top. The date – yesterday. The same day he had walked into the police station and confessed to arson as calmly as if he were ordering coffee.
I stared at it until the words blurred.
Swiss account. Numbered. Anonymous.
Preparing to flee.
That was the story the document told. Clean and logical
I pressed my palms flat against the paper, as if I could force it to change. As if I could squeeze another meaning out of it. But the truth, at least the version staring back at me, was simple.
Daniel had planned an exit.
While I stood here, defending him. While my nonprofit bled donors and trust. While Pierce smiled on television and called Daniel “a tragic cautionary tale.”
I
