First message
I slid the file into the shredder one page at a time, watching names and dates curl into ash. It was late—everyone with a conscience had gone home hours ago. Just me, the hum of old fluorescent lights, and the smell of burnt paper. Case #7421 was never going to trial. Not after what it cost. I lit a cigarette with a shaky hand and reached for the next file when there was a knock at the door. Not a timid one. One of those deliberate knocks, the kind that says: I know you’re in there.