Marybeth
The problem with evidence was that it never arrived all at once. At least not in real life. Stories liked dramatic revelations. One document. One witness. One undeniable piece of proof that changed everything. Reality was crueller.
Reality arrived one uncomfortable detail at a time. One coincidence. Then another. Then another. Until eventually coincidence became impossible. And that was exactly where I found myself. I sat alone in my office long after everyone else had gone home.
The building had fallen silent hours ago. Only a single desk lamp illuminated the room. Files covered nearly every available surface. Attack reports. Meeting minutes. Patrol schedules. Attendance logs. Weeks of work. Weeks of questions. Weeks of increasingly uncomfortable discoveries.
And every roa
