Morning after the storm feels like someone offering a clean plate. The inn smelled of lemon and old paper, and for the first time in days the quiet wasn’t brittle — it was a steadier thing, thinned by work but held in place by truth.Marcus was up before me, as if the day itself had cues only he could read. He sat at the kitchen table with counsel on the laptop and a stack of papers neat as a small fort. He looked up when I padded in, eyes raw around the edges but bright in a way I liked: the sort you get from doing the hard work when nobody is watching. He pushed a mug toward me. “We have something,” he said.My pulse turned into a drum. He’d been moving like a man marshalling a private army — lawyers, forensics, the quiet grunt-of-effort of people who want to prove a lie is a lie. “What is it?” I asked, though my throat was already set against the news.“Forensic accountant says the scanned ‘donation memorandum’ is a composite,” he said. “Several different fonts, stamps added after
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