Rachel Morgan had knocked on many doors in her career. Politicians, CEOs, frightened whistleblowers. She knew the sounds of hesitation behind a door: the shuffle of slippers, the pause in breathing, the whisper of children in the background. The door in front of her tonight was no different. A modest two-story home in a quiet suburb, paint on the porch rail chipping, toys scattered on the lawn — evidence of a life still in motion, despite the coffin-sized void inside it. The door creaked open. A woman, mid-twenties, with tired eyes and hair pulled back in a careless knot, stared at her. For one suspended moment, hope flashed — maybe a neighbor, maybe a package. But the sight of Rachel, sharp in her coat and with that practiced stillness of someone who came not to console but to dig, made
