I touched my shoulder again.
The injection.
The B12 shot.
David saying I looked tired.
David making the appointment himself.
A fast little urgent care visit I had almost forgotten.
Carter opened a file.
One of the monitors lit up with folders organized by year. Photos. Dates. Locations. My entire relationship laid out like evidence.
Most of it, he explained, came from surveillance they had gathered over the last eight months.
But some of it came from Marcus’s own records.
“He was documenting it,” I said numbly.
Carter nodded.
“He wanted proof. He wanted your father to one day see exactly how carefully your life had been engineered.”
The first photo showed the coffee shop on West Sixth. David and I laughing over switched drinks. The timestamp was precise down to the second.
“That meeting was staged,” Carter said. “The barista was paid five hundred dollars to give you the wrong order. David was positioned at that table because Marcus’s people had tracked your Tuesday routine for six weeks.”
He clicked forward.
A bookstore. David and I reaching for the same thriller.
“That book was planted,” Carter said. “David already had a copy. He’d never read it.”
Another click.
