"I almost died for this case."
"Which is why I'm telling you anything at all." He closes the file. "That's all I can share."
Frustration burns in my chest. The same frustration that made me leave the Bureau in the first place. The bureaucracy. The walls. The way information gets locked behind clearance levels while people who actually did the work get shut out.
"The initials are J.M.," I say. "A federal marshal. He was connected to Whitewater Junction when Emma Blackwater died. He ordered her execution. That makes him complicit in murder. What's his real name?"
"Classified."
I stand. The chair scrapes loud against linoleum. "If you're done interrogating me, I have victims to interview."
Reeves doesn't try to stop me. He just watches as I head for the door. His assessment follows. Cataloging. Judging. Deciding whether I'm an asset or a liability.
The interviews take hours. I sit across from women who have been through hell and somehow survived. They tell their stories in halting English, in Russian, in broken fragments. I take notes. Offer tissues. Coordinate with trauma counselors.
One woman's face lights up when I enter the interview room. Dark hair, maybe mid-twenties. One of the eight we pulled from the camp.
"You were there," she says in accented English. "At the camp. You helped us."
"Sheriff Blackwater helped you. I just came along for the ride."
"No." She shakes her head firmly. "You spoke to us like people, not victims. That mattered."
The words hit harder than they should. Kindness. In the middle of violence and fear, sometimes that's what saves you.
We talk for an hour. She tells me about the network's promises of housekeeping work in Seattle. The reality ofcaptivity and exploitation. Two escape attempts that cost her bruises and broken promises. How Rhys showing up felt like a miracle she had stopped believing in.
The invisible damage shows in how she flinches when the door opens too fast. How her hands shake talking about the guards. How her voice drops describing the others who didn't make it out.
"There were more," she says. "Before I arrived. The guards talked about them. Girls who tried to run. Who fought back. They disappeared." Her eyes fill with tears she refuses to let fall. "I was going to be next. They told me. Said I caused too much trouble."
My throat tightens. "You're safe now."
"Am I?" She looks at me with eyes too old for her twenty-three years. "The network is big. You arrested many people but not all. What if someone comes looking? What if they want revenge for what we told you?"
It's a fair question. One I don't have a good answer for because witness protection is complicated and expensive and federal resources are finite. But I can give her truth instead of false promises.
"The people we arrested were the infrastructure. The organizers. Without them, the network falls apart. And you're not alone anymore." I lean forward. "But more than that, you survived. You're stronger than they ever gave you credit for."
She considers this. Nods slowly. "I want to testify. In court. I want them to see my face and know they did not break me."
The words hit harder than they should. "Then you will."
"What happens now?" she asks when we are finished.
"You get to go home. Or stay here if you want. The choice is yours."
"Choice." She tests the word like something foreign. "I have not had choice in very long time."
"You do now."
When I leave the interview room, exhaustion hits. My shoulder aches. My ribs protest every breath. Three days of adrenaline and coffee catching up.
Zeke leans against the hallway wall.
"You okay?" he asks.
"No. But I will be."
