Wednesday morning arrived with a sharpness that felt like a physical blow. I had slept for perhaps two hours, drifting in and out of a shallow doze where every sound—the settling of the house, the wind in the eaves, the distant hum of a car engine—registered as a threat. When the alarm went off at six, I silenced it immediately. My mouth tasted like copper. My eyes felt gritty, as if I had been staring at a bright light for too long.
I didn't go downstairs immediately. I stayed in bed for a moment, listening. The house was quiet. Marcus was already up; his side of the bed was cold. I reached for my phone on the nightstand. The screen was dark. No notifications. No messages from the whistleblower.
I opened the secure app. The drop box icon was still gray. Empty.
My stomach tightened. Had
