Lila looked between the two of us, her breathing slowing as a new kind of fear registered on her face.

“What are you saying?” Lila asked.

I pointed toward the tripod in the corner, where the amber light continued its slow, steady pulse.

“That camera is still connected to the media room,” I said.

Lila turned her head slowly, her eyes fixing on the black glass of the lens.

“You want me to go on record,” she whispered.

“I want the truth where Grant cannot buy it back,” I said.

The phone in my pocket vibrated again, a long, sustained buzz that signaled an incoming call.

I did not answer it.

Lila stared at the camera, her fingers tightening around the leather notebook until her knuckles turned white.

“If I do that,” Lila said, her voice barely audible, “my career is over. No developer in this state will ever hire me again.”

“Your career with Grant is already over,” I said.

The heavy oak door behind us rattled as someone tried the handle from the outside.

A man’s voice, muffled but distinct, called out from the hallway.