“You have my attention,” I said, my grip tightening on the grip of my pistol. “Now tell me what you’re doing here.”

Brandon pointed to the leather chair opposite the desk.

“Sit down, Colonel. We have a common interest to discuss, and very little time.”

I didn’t sit. I kept my gun leveled.

“I don’t sit with Prescotts,” I said.

Brandon sighed, a dry sound, and tapped the manila folder on the desk with his index finger.

“You want what’s in this folder,” he said. “And I want what’s on your flash drive.”

“Why would I trade with you? You’re one of them.”

“Because my mother and my brother are monsters,” Brandon said, his voice dropping an octave.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the polished wood desk, his eyes narrowing.

“Margaret has spent thirty years protecting Ethan, covering up his messes,” he said.

“He’s a liability,” I said.

“He’s a disease,” Brandon corrected. “And he’s destroying our family legacy.”

He opened the manila folder, turning the first page toward me.

Inside were yellowed pages with official Charlotte Police Department headers.