They believed.
Tragic.
Simple.
But the documents said something uglier.
Grant lied.
They suspected.
They chose.
Because choosing Grant meant keeping the family story intact.
Choosing me would have meant admitting they helped bury their daughter while she was still breathing.
Rachel’s phone buzzed.
She glanced at it.
Her face changed.
“What?”
“Your mother wants to speak with the government.”
My throat tightened.
“About what?”
“She says she has information.”
I stood too quickly.
“What information?”
Rachel’s eyes narrowed.
“I don’t know yet.”
The interview happened in a side conference room.
I was not allowed inside.
Witness contamination.
Procedure.
Always procedure.
So I waited in the hallway with my back against the wall, listening to courthouse sounds.
Elevators.
Shoes.
Muted voices.
Grant’s attorney passing once, face tight.
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