Dom's report arrived at 6:03 a.m. on a Thursday, forty-seven hours after she'd sat across from him in that coffee shop.
Mia was already awake. She had been awake since four, sitting at the small wooden desk in room seven with her notes spread across the surface and a concentration she recognized from her own students—the particular stillness of someone learning something for their life.
The email had a PDF attached. Fourteen pages. The subject line read: Forensic Analysis — Image Metadata & Device Attribution (FINAL).
She opened it and read every word.
Dom's language was precise and unglamorous—the language of a man who trusted data more than narrative. But the conclusion, at the bottom of page thirteen, was plain enough for any jury to understand.
All fabricated image files were crea
