The foundation’s auditorium had been dressed like a sanctuary—clean lines, warm wood, rows of upholstered seats that swallowed sound. The press pack filled the middle, cameras anchored like small cannons, booms floating like dragonflies over heads. Along the back wall, a few fans had filtered in, drawn by Cameron’s name and the promise of a statement; ushers kept them corralled with gentle sternness.
Onstage, a lectern stood center with the CROSS FOUNDATION seal in brushed steel. To its right, a small table held two laptops and a monitor on an easel—the forensic team’s battlefield. To the left, four chairs waited in a neat line.
Mya stood just beyond the curtain, palms cool against the silk of her blouse. Casey had been right—the soft blue made her look rested even though she wasn’t. Cam
