The room goes silent.
Not the quiet of calm.
The quiet before something detonates.
Adrian stares at his phone for half a second too long. I know that look. It’s the look of a man rearranging facts into strategy, pulling threads together until they form a noose.
“Say it,” I whisper.
He lifts his eyes to mine.
“Traffic cam footage from the night of your accident has been erased.”
The words don’t land immediately. They hover, unreal, like smoke that refuses to dissipate.
“Erased?” I repeat.
“Deleted from the municipal archive at 2:17 a.m.,” he says evenly. “The same day the hospital photo was accessed.”
The same day.
My pulse begins to pound in my ears.
“That’s not coincidence,” I say.
“No.”
“Can it be recovered?”
“I’m working on it.”
He’s already dialing someone — voice calm,
