Agent Miller met us in a glass-walled conference room in the back of the suite.

He had dark circles under his eyes and a half-empty paper cup in his hand.

“Do you have it?” Miller asked, pulling out a metal chair for me.

I took the small digital recorder from my pocket and set it on the wooden table.

“Everything is on here,” I said, my voice steadying. “Elaine’s voice, the offshore account numbers, the names of the syndicate board members.”

Damon sat beside me, his shoulder brushing mine, solid and warm.

“The syndicate relies on Elaine’s medical clinics to launder the offshore funds,” Damon explained, his eyes fixed on the agent.

Miller plugged the recorder into his laptop with a black cable.

The audio began to play, static filling the quiet room before Elaine’s voice cut through.

*”Damon will never trace the transfers back to the pharmaceutical accounts,”* her recorded voice said, cold and clear.

Hearing her speak of our son, of her plans to dismantle Damon’s life, made my skin crawl.

Miller tapped his keyboard, his eyes tracking the blue waveform on his screen.