"You never asked."
The corner of his mouth curves. Brief. Gone before it fully forms.
The same hands that tied me to the headboard are adjusting his cuffs now. Same man. Different armor.
I force my attention back to Holloway. "How confident are you that Monroe will cooperate?"
"He'll cooperate." Holloway glances at his phone. "Man thinks he's climbing the ladder. Thinks we're bringing him in on something bigger than his pay grade."
"And when he realizes he's not?"
"Then we remind him that falsifying federal access logs carries the same sentence as the underlying crimes he enabled." I keep my voice even. "Felony murder doctrine. Every judge who died because of intelligence he provided—that's on him."
Holloway's eyebrows lift slightly. "Kade said you'd be useful."
"I've sat through worse negotiations than this."
Cole rounds the table, settling into the chair beside mine. Close enough that I catch cedar underneath something sharper. Cologne. He's wearing cologne.
When did he put that on? This morning, while I was getting Chesca ready for school?
The door opens.
Monroe walks in. He's in his mid-forties, fit without being remarkable, the kind of face that would vanish in a crowd photo. Built to blend.
His eyes sweep the room. Land on Kade, then Holloway, then—
He sees me. Registers Cole beside my chair.
"Dennis." Monroe's voice carries federal agent confidence, but something underneath it shifts. "What is this? You said DeLuca's supply chain."
"Sit down, Richard." Holloway's tone allows no room for negotiation.
A beat. Monroe sits.
His gaze moves between us, reading, calculating. "Who are these people?"
"Concerned parties." Kade slides the first file across the table.
Monroe doesn't open it. Yet.
"Offshore account. Caymans. Opened six years ago." Kade's voice is measured, factual. Not accusing. Just presenting data.
Monroe's face stays controlled. Trained. "I don't know what you're implying."
"I'm not implying anything." Kade slides a second file. "Federal database access logs. Your credentials. Eight judges, files pulled within seventy-two hours of their deaths."
Monroe's jaw tightens. First crack.
"That's circumstantial. I work these cases. Of course I accessed their files—"
"Before they were assigned to you." Holloway leans forward. "Before anyone knew they'd need investigating."
Silence.
"This is ridiculous." Monroe pushes back from the table. "I want my lawyer."
"You can have one." I set my coffee cup down. "But the access timestamps create a pattern. Predictive rather than reactive. Any competent prosecutor will argue foreknowledge. And foreknowledge of a murder makes you an accessory."