Detectives listened, eyes tightening at each page. Units rolled to the warehouse; Alden was found pinned but alive, the chest secured, the rest of the files boxed like rescued lungs.
Document techs whispered the word authentic the way divers say air. Fraud. Bribes. Maintenance lies. Names of sailors who complained and then went missing—at sea or on paper.
An investigator traced a finger along a line of coordinates. “These match the Trident’s last ping.” Another lifted letters on Harrington letterhead about “containing liability” and “ensuring no second archive.”
Rowan stood behind glass watching his father’s handwriting turn from grief into evidence. It didn’t bring the man back. It brought his purpose into the room and set it down where everyone could see it.
