(Hailey Miller POV)
The early hours unspooled around us — a room lit by a single lamp, the rest of the apartment folded into darkness. Liam and I were hunched over a litter of papers, names and figures that smelled faintly of printer toner and old lies. Each sheet was a new excrescence on a body already riddled with rot: invoices with no legitimate purpose, route manifests with gaps where conscience should have been, transfers threaded through offshore accounts like a poison delivered in installments.
Liam read in that flat, flat tone he used when he wanted to keep feeling nothing. Names of shell companies slid out of his mouth like business calls: account numbers, wire transfers, shell corporations with pleasant names and murderous functions. He pointed with the dull end of a pen as if
