Elena didn't sleep that night either.
She sat on the edge of the guest bed with her phone in her lap and her father's old case files spread across the duvet — boxes she'd kept in storage since the trial, the ones Giulia had always refused to touch, the ones Elena had told herself she was saving for some future version of herself who could handle reading them.
That future version, apparently, had arrived tonight, uninvited, at one in the morning.
She found the calendar first. Her father's diary from that year, the paper kind he'd always insisted on keeping alongside the digital one, because he didn't trust anything he couldn't hold. She flipped to the date. October the fourteenth. The night Marcus Vale died.
Two words, in her father's cramped handwriting.
*Geneva. Client.*
She stared
