We moved like conspirators.
The house felt different that morning—no longer a bunker of panic but a war room. Dad cleared two chairs and a folding table, set up my laptop like it was an altar, and stared at the ledger with the same concentration he used on quarterly statements. Dominic ran through the list with Gage and the reporter—small, private pieces of the story stitched into a narrative no lawyer could easily stitch closed.
We had a plan: midday press conference at the community center, one trusted reporter with a live feed, the ledger, bank records, screenshots, and a copy of the drive from Mercer Vault. We’d put the names on the table and the town could decide what to do with them. We would not bow to NDAs or the small-town hush-money machine.
Before we left, Dominic pulled me i
