Eventually, I asked, “What happens now?”
Emily sighed. “He’s gone. Reynolds died three years ago. Heart attack.”
I closed my eyes. “Then there’s no case.”
“Not legally,” she said. “But that’s not why I kept digging.”
She reached into her bag and pulled out one more item — a small folder, worn at the edges.
Inside was a letter addressed to me.
“What happens now?”
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The envelope was faded, but the name written on it was clear: Martin — my name.
“It’s from Reynolds’ wife,” Emily said quietly.
Apparently, she had found it while sorting through her late husband’s files. Alongside it were copies of redacted reports, handwritten notes, and one unfiled confession.
The letter shook in my hands as I opened it.
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