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 heavy wooden door of Conference Room B didn't slam when Garza pushed it open; it glided on balanced pneumatic hinges, clicking shut behind him with the soft, ominous finality of a bank vault.

Julian turned away from the window, that polished, aristocratic smile instantly re-engaging. "Lieutenant Garza. I hope we're moving forward. Evelyn and I have a crisis management board meeting at eleven, and if Caleb is still being uncooperative, my legal counsel can provide—"

Julian stopped mid-sentence.

His eyes drifted past Garza’s broad shoulder, landing dead center on me.

I stepped into the room, hands resting loosely in the pockets of my windbreaker, standing beside Detective Miller. Behind us walked two civilian technicians from the Illinois State Police Forensic Investigative Unit, carrying sterile blue evidence kits and stainless steel utility cases.

Evelyn looked up from her laptop, her breath catching in her throat. "Caleb? What... what is this? Why isn't he in processing?"

Julian’s smile didn't vanish immediately; it fractured. The edges of his mouth twitched, a hairline crack running through forty years of cultivated silver-spoon confidence.

"Garza," Julian said, his voice dropping half an octave, losing its smooth, rhythmic melody. "What is the meaning of this? Why is the suspect in this room?"

"There's only one suspect in this room, Mr. Mercer," Garza said, walking to the head of the conference table and pulling a heavy manila folder from under his arm. He dropped it onto the laminate surface.

THUD.

The sound was concussive in the small room.

"And his name isn't Caleb Hayes."

Julian let out a short, sharp bark of laughter—the defensive, condescending chuckle of a man who believed his trust fund was an impenetrable shield. "Excuse me? Are you out of your mind? I came down here as a civic duty! I provided the preliminary location data for his vehicle! I am the victim's primary corporate asset manager!"

"You're a thief, Julian," I said softly, stepping around the table.

Julian flinched as if I had struck him with a riding crop. His eyes flared with a sudden, feral hatred that made Evelyn draw back in her chair.

"Shut up, Caleb," Julian hissed, his teeth bared in an ugly, venomous sneer. "You're a glorified technician who worked for my firm on a minority equity grant. You don't speak to me."

"It wasn't your firm, Julian," I said, leaning my hands on the back of an empty chair. "It was our firm. Until you wired eight hundred thousand dollars to an offshore account in Grand Cayman on July 14th. Then another six hundred thousand on August 3rd. And another nine hundred thousand last Tuesday."

Evelyn froze. Her hands hovered over her keyboard, her face turning the color of bleached bone. "Julian... what is he talking about? Our escrow tranches were locked under dual-authorization keys."

"He cloned your key, Evelyn," I said, not taking my eyes off Julian’s sweating forehead. "Three months ago, when he borrowed your laptop to 'review the quarterly tax schedules.' He installed an automated keylogger, harvested your private security tokens, and systematically bled our reserve accounts dry to cover his margin calls on shorted semiconductor futures."

"That's a lie!" Julian roared, slamming his fist onto the table. "He's fabricating records! He's an infrastructure engineer, Evelyn! He can forge digital logs in his sleep!"

"Can he forge physical fiber, Mr. Mercer?" Garza interrupted, his voice dropping into an icy, gravelly drone.

Garza gestured to the two forensic technicians.

"Take off the sweater, Julian."

Julian’s breath hitched in his throat with a wet, ragged rattle. He took half a step backward toward the window, his eyes darting frantically between Garza, Miller, and the two technicians who were currently snapping blue nitrile gloves over their wrists.

"What?" Julian stammered, his voice climbing into a panicked, defensive pitch. "This... this is an eight-hundred-dollar Loro Piana sweater! You can't touch my clothes without a warrant!"

"We have an emergency exigent-circumstances seizure order signed by District Judge Holbrook twenty minutes ago, Mr. Mercer," Garza said, taking two slow, heavy steps forward. "Specifically authorizing the retrieval of trace polypropylene microfibers matching the cordage used to terminate the life of Victoria Vance."