Every morning, I sat with my coffee, shuffling papers around it, making calls, pretending the folder did not exist.

Today, I stopped pretending.

The Atlantic stretched beyond my penthouse windows, a bright blue sheet beneath the Florida sun. I designed this space myself after Spencer’s death—marble, glass, steel, clean lines. No clutter. No shadows. I’ve lived here for twenty-eight years. Some days, it still feels like a hotel suite where I’m only passing through.

I lifted the folder. It felt far too light considering the weight of what it held. Thirty thousand dollars for a six-page report and one photograph. Information doesn’t weigh much these days—not in your hands, anyway.