He trusted the attorney general to follow it.
Most of all, he trusted me to open the envelope even when the truth inside it threatened to destroy everything I believed about my own family.
For months, I had thought grief made me weak.
Audrey had counted on that.
She believed a widow who could barely leave her bed would never challenge a detective, trace a bank account, or stand in court and describe her sister’s betrayal.
She mistook pain for helplessness.
Logan never did.
Before leaving the office, I touched the photograph of him holding our children.
Then I opened the final voice note on my phone.
“Hey, beautiful,” he said.
“I’m on my way home.”
For the first time, I did not replay it.
I slipped the phone into my pocket, took my children’s hands, and walked out of the building.
Logan was not coming home.
But because of what he left behind, neither were his killers.
