At the kitchen table, Naomi opened everything with gloved hands. Contracts. account logs. handwritten ledgers. Then she went still.
“This isn’t just debt,” she said. “It’s Mercer’s transport ledger.”
“Transport of what?”
Naomi swallowed.
“Not what. Who.”
Workers. Men moved between job sites under false names. Women processed through fake staffing companies. Wages stolen. Papers withheld. Human beings reduced to numbers.
Ryan had not just been drowning in debt. He had touched something far worse.
One audio file on the drive contained voices discussing permits, inspections, police overtime, city officials. Corruption so ordinary it was worse for being real.
Claire said, “Then we take this to the FBI.”
Naomi said, “Maybe.”
Before they could decide, the back alarm beeped.
Scott had just entered through the garage with coffee—but moments later car doors slammed outside. Too many.
Derek.
Men came to the front door, then through it.
Naomi shoved the evidence into Scott’s arms.
“Garage. Now. If anyone stops you, run them over.”
She dragged Claire upstairs, shoved her into the empty closet, opened an attic crawlspace panel, and said, “Go.”
“You?”
“I’ll buy time.”