"That matches," I say.
"Everything matches." Cara cycles through more footage. A ceremony where Graves accepts a commendation. Congressional testimony about trafficking networks—the irony of which isn't lost on either of us. Each clip shows the same physical characteristics, the same posture, the same rigid authority Traci documented. "Height, build, bearing, voice. And look at how the other marshals react to him in this footage. The same deference pattern she described."
"That's verification."
"That's everything we need." Cara starts organizing files, preparing documentation. "Her testimony puts someone matching Graves' exact physical description and behavioral patterns at the trafficking compound. Someone the guards showed clear deference to. Someone discussing Haywood and federal exposure. Combined with what we already know about Graves' position and access—this builds a prosecutable case."
"What's next?"
"I need to get Traci's formal statement documented properly. Video recording, written testimony, proper timestamps and legal formatting. I've got the setup in here—can she handle that today?"
"She can handle it. She's tougher than she looks."
"Good. Give me an hour to set up in here and prepare the legal documentation."
I head back to the infirmary. Traci's resting, the notebook still clutched in her hands. She looks up when I enter. Exhaustion shows in her face—emotional exhaustion from reliving trauma, physical exhaustion from the effort it takes to write page after page of detailed observations.
"Cara needs to document your statement formally," I tell her. "Make it official. A legal record that can be used to prosecute Graves. Are you up for that?"
Her pen moves across the page.
Will it stop him?
"It's a major step toward stopping him. Your testimony, combined with the evidence Cara's gathering—it builds a case that federal authorities can't ignore. Even with all his connections, Graves can't make this disappear once it's officially documented."
Okay. I'll do it.
"We can do it in here if that will make you feel safer. Cara will set up her recording equipment, ask questions, you'll write your answers, and everything gets documented properly. It's standard witness testimony procedure."
She nods, sets the notebook aside, visibly gathering herself for what comes next. I call Cara and tell her Traci would feel safer in the infirmary. Cara assures me that won’t be a problem and arrives with her laptop and a small camera on a tripod. She sets it up efficiently and professionally, explaining each step to Traci. What the recording will capture. How the testimony will be documented. What protections exist for witnesses in federal cases.
I stay in the room while Cara conducts the interview. Watch Traci answer questions with careful precision. Watch her writeout descriptions of what she observed—the man's height, build, bearing, voice. The fragments of conversation she overheard about Haywood and federal exposure. The behavioral patterns she noticed with the guards.
Through the open door, I catch sight of Eli moving past in the hallway. Brief glimpse of him checking defensive positions, that coiled tension in every movement. Muscle memory—my body remembering how that discipline felt directed at me last night. Focused. Intense. Taking me apart with the same precision he uses for everything.
It's a distraction I don't need right now.
Cara documents everything. Timestamps the video recording. Has Traci initial each page of written testimony. Builds a legal record that'll survive scrutiny.
It takes hours. By the time we're finished, Traci's exhausted and Cara has documentation that connects Graves to the compound through multiple corroborating observations.
"This is excellent work," Cara tells Traci. "You've given us everything we need to move forward with prosecution. Now you rest and let us handle the legal side."
Traci nods, settles back into the bed. Relief crosses her expression. The sense that she's done what she needed to do. That she's fought back the only way she could.
After Cara leaves with the documentation, I stay with Traci. Make sure she's comfortable. Check her vitals. I provide the kind of straightforward medical care that doesn't require emotional processing.
The door opens quietly. Eli appears, moving into the room with that predatory awareness he brings to everything—checking corners, evaluating threats, taking up space in a way that makes the infirmary feel smaller. His gaze finds Traci first, assessing her condition with the clinical precision of someone who's triaged field casualties. Then his attention shifts to me.
Want slides through my body, sharp and immediate. The weight of him, the calculated force, the way he took me apart with brutal efficiency.
This is not the time.
"How is she?" he asks. His voice is low, rough-edged.
"Exhausted but okay. She gave Cara everything needed for prosecution."
He nods, moves closer to the bed. Traci watches him with that wary assessment she uses on everyone. Still trying to read whether he's safe, whether she can trust this uncle she barely knows.
