I'm back at the morning the detective knocks on my door. I remember exactly how this goes: the real culprit is the one who reported me first.

The observation corridor was colder now, the air conditioned down to preserve the electrical components of the recording racks mounted along the ceiling.

Garza, Miller, and I stood behind the one-way glass of Conference Room B.

Inside, Julian had finished his coffee. He was standing by the window overlooking the wet concrete of the precinct parking lot, adjusting the cuffs of his luxurious charcoal cashmere sweater. He looked like an executive waiting for a delayed flight—slightly inconvenienced, thoroughly composed, and confident that the turbulence was happening miles away from his seat.

Evelyn sat at the table, her laptop open, reviewing what appeared to be a draft press release. Her eyes were rimmed with red, but her posture was rigid. She was an attorney; she knew that when the corporate ship hit an iceberg, the legal team didn't mourn the passengers—they secured the lifeboats.

"Look at the left sleeve," I murmured, pointing through the glass. "Right at the forearm seam, two inches above the ribbed cuff."

Garza pulled a pocket magnifying loupe from his suit jacket, pressing the lens against the scratched surface of the one-way glass.

Miller leaned over his shoulder, his breath hitching in his throat.

"I don't see anything," Miller grumbled. "It's just dark wool."

"Look closer, Raymond," Garza whispered, his fingers adjusting the focal ring. "Under the secondary fluorescent light. When he turns toward the glass."

Julian turned.

He lifted his left hand to check his gold Patek Philippe wristwatch.

As the overhead tube light hit the sleeve at a forty-five-degree angle, a faint, microscopic glint of iridescence flashed against the matte charcoal fabric. It was tiny—no larger than the head of a pin—but it held a distinct, unnatural shade of turquoise-blue that didn't belong to any sheep on earth.

"Polypropylene," Garza breathed. "The marine line."

"Not just the line," I said, my voice dropping into an icy, clinical cadence. "Victoria fought back. In the old timeline—the one you'll never have to read in the papers—the medical examiner found trace amounts of grade-six cashmere fibers underneath the broken fingernails of her right index and middle fingers. You didn't find them on my clothes because I don't own cashmere. Julian owns twelve of those sweaters. That one is imported from Florence. The dye lot is registered."

Miller looked like he was going to be physically sick. He turned his face away from the glass, staring at his scuffed shoes, his hands shaking slightly at his sides. He had been twenty minutes away from parading me in front of the local news cameras in handcuffs, building his career on the ashes of an innocent man's life.

"Why didn't you go to the FBI directly?" Garza asked, lowering the loupe and turning his heavy frame toward me. "If you had this data at dawn, why walk onto Miller's doorstep? Why let him bring you down here?"

"Because if federal agents picked Julian up at his loft, his high-priced defense firm would have had him out on bond before noon," I replied, looking directly into Garza's eyes. "They would have filed protective motions on the servers, claimed corporate espionage, and tied the forensic evidence up in preliminary discovery for five years. But if he walks into a police precinct voluntarily, signs a sworn witness statement containing three dozen deliberate perjuries, and hands you his physical clothing as part of a voluntary interview..."

I turned back to the glass, watching Julian smile reassuringly at Evelyn.

"...he walks straight into the slaughterhouse on his own two feet."

Garza didn't smile, but a low, terrifying rumble of amusement vibrated in his broad chest. He pocketed the loupe, turned on his heel, and looked at Miller.

"Raymond," Garza commanded, his voice cold and flat as a butcher's block.

"Yeah, Lieutenant?" Miller croaked.

"Call the crime lab. Tell them to bring two evidence preservation bags, a pair of surgical shears, and three rolls of forensic trace tape to Conference Room B."