“I have more,” he said, voice thin but steady. “I found a thread on an old account. I tracked payments. I recorded a call.” He swallowed. “I didn’t want to be a part of it. I didn’t want to help them. I’m telling the truth now.”
There were gasps. Evelyn’s lawyer started to sputter. Someone in the back started to shout. But Marisol opened the envelope calmly and pulled out a stack of screen-grabs and a single bank receipt with routing numbers. She held them up like evidence in a courtroom.
Two things happened at once. First, men in suits who’d been private patrons of the studio shifted in their seats. Second, I saw Dad’s expression change — from worry to a combination of resolve and a flash of something like pride. He turned, caught my eye, and mouthed one word I’d needed to hear: Stay.
