Margaret Stone — POV
The envelope lay open before me, its contents scattered across the cold, polished surface of the federal prosecutor’s conference table.
Twenty years of watching.
Twenty years of knowing things I couldn’t prove.
Twenty years of being too afraid to speak.
Not anymore.
Across from me sat Rebecca Walsh, Assistant Federal Prosecutor—her expression professional but curious. To her right, Agent Martinez observed silently, his eyes sharp and unreadable.
“Mrs. Stone,” Walsh began, setting a recorder on the table. “Everything you say here will be documented and may be used in court. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“And you’re waiving your right to have your attorney present?”
“My attorney has already advised me,” I said, folding my trembling hands tightly in my lap
