The real one remained sealed in evidence.
My part of the plan was simple.
I would enter with Clara.
We would make Victor talk.
Samuel objected until the final moment.
“You are injured.”
“I can still speak.”
“He may be dangerous.”
“So are the truths he is hiding.”
“You have already done enough.”
“No,” I said. “I spent seven years believing the wrong story about my husband. I spent eighteen years believing the wrong story about my sister. I spent a lifetime telling myself my children would become better without ever requiring them to change. I am finished living inside stories created by other people.”
Samuel had no answer.
At nine o’clock, Clara and I entered the plant.
The main floor smelled of rust, damp wood, and old machinery.
Victor waited inside the glass-walled supervisor’s office.
He wore a charcoal coat and leather gloves.
Two men stood behind him.
