He placed photographs of my injuries on the bedside table.
“But I need evidence that establishes exactly what happened.”
I looked toward the door.
“Then call Bridget Colton.”
“Your attorney?”
I nodded.
Two hours later, Bridget entered carrying a battered banker’s box.
She closed the door and carefully removed a sealed USB drive.
“Found it exactly where you told me,” she said.
My heart hammered.
I’d spent eleven months collecting financial records from our family’s housing foundation.
Eleven months documenting suspicious payments, forged signatures, and money disappearing from programs meant to help vulnerable families.
I had hidden copies outside my parents’ reach before confronting them.
Bridget connected the drive to her laptop.
Dozens of folders appeared.
Detective Voss leaned forward as she opened the first financial report.
He read one page.
Then another.
His expression hardened.
Finally, Bridget clicked a folder I had never seen before.
Its title contained my full name.
