It was a photograph, old and creased at the corners, the kind that had been folded and unfolded a hundred times. In it, my father stood in a dim warehouse beside a man I did not recognize, both of them shaking hands over open cardboard boxes. Stacks of cash sat on a pallet behind them. Along the bottom edge, in my father’s own handwriting, was a date and a single word I had heard him use only once, late at night, when he thought no one was listening.

I looked up at Ethan. His hands were trembling harder than mine. “Where did you get this?” I whispered. He swallowed. “My dad gave it to me before he died. He worked for Preston, at the same company. He found out what they were doing, and he kept proof so they could never touch our family.” The burgers had gone cold. The pitying couple had stopped smiling. Ethan leaned close and said, “There’s more. And it’s about tonight.”