In another, he appeared to be shouting at someone behind a restaurant counter.
Another showed him leaning aggressively over a conference table toward a younger employee.
There were more.
Organized photographs.
Not family pictures.
Evidence.
Beneath them was a folded document.
And on top was a business card.
I could read the words printed beneath the woman’s name.
Investigative journalist.
The man looked up at her.
“I can explain.”
“I’m sure you can.”
Her voice remained completely calm.
“You always have explanations.”
He swallowed.
“This isn’t the place.”
The woman looked toward Caleb.
“You made it the place.”
He said nothing.
“The moment you told that boy to go watch from the hallway, you made it the place.”
His voice dropped.
“Please.”
She pointed toward the lunchbox.
“That document contains a summary of eight months of reporting.”
He stared at her.
“Parking violations. Insurance issues. Contracts. Business practices. The way you treat people when you believe they have less power than you.”
