“No,” Evelyn said. “The signature is clear. The lab stamp is clear.”

“It’s a smoking gun.”

She looked at Nathan.

“Nathan, do you have anything to say?”

Nathan stood up slowly.

He walked to the window and looked down at the street below.

He was silent for several seconds, watching the cars crawl through the rain.

“Victor always thought he was the only one who kept records,” Nathan said, his voice quiet.

He turned back to face us.

He did not look like a man who was about to go to prison.

He looked like a man who had finally made a decision after years of carrying a weight.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

Nathan reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his own phone.

He did not look at it. He just held it in his hand.

“Victor thinks he has a knife to my throat,” Nathan said.

“But he doesn’t realize how tired I am of looking at it.”

The office door opened again.

The paralegal stood there, her face tight with anxiety.