I said: "Tell me everything. From the beginning. Don't leave anything out."
Dax Orel told me.
He was twenty-four. A legal clerk at a northern corridor firm that handled financial dispute cases for corridor communities — not one of Crone's connected firms. He had found the documents by accident. Wrong file. Three minutes before he was supposed to go home. The way significant things always arrived — inconveniently and without announcement.
The documents were correspondence.
Between Halveth Crone and one other person.
Going back four years.
Not financial instruments. Not consortium structures. Personal correspondence, written by hand. The kind people kept on paper because they understood that digital trails could be traced and paper could be burned.
Dax had not burned them.
He had cop
