None of the papers actually say that, not in those words. But the sentiment is there, glaring between the lines. The silly maid thought that being fucked by her employer made her special. She actually presumed that an important VP would leave his blond debutante wife for a little Mexican housekeeper, a woman who cleaned his toilet to earn money for groceries, food to feed herself and her bastard daughter. She was delusional . . . but more than that—she was dangerous. Only a few months earlier, a Haitian nanny who may or may not have been suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder had been caught trying to kidnap the children in her charge. And months before that, a Chinese limo driver had been exposed as being part of a crime ring—he was signaling his burglar associates every time he picked up an important client, letting them know which specific houses would be unoccupied for a while and would make good targets.

So this story about the maid? It fit that narrative. The enemy lives among us, disguised as loyal servants. They have to be stopped, and quickly.

It’s the kind of narrative that can influence a jury, the kind of boogeyman story that scares people into ignoring things like lack of evidence and due process.

Of course, most of the information I have now was never discussed during the trial. Never even brought up. And I know from experience—painful, frustrating experience—that the authorities have absolutely no interest in looking at any new information now. They got their conviction, their headlines, their promotions; any new twist would just be inconvenient at this point.

Just as well, perhaps. I touch the papers on my desk. All this information in the hands of a bureaucrat would be useless.

But in the hands of a vigilante? It’s invaluable.

In the dim light of my place, I smile to myself and reach into my purse, pull out my Android, and flip through the pictures I took at Lander’s place. The drawings catch my eye first. I study the one with the guy who is about to bite the hand of the man handing him money. Bite, Torture, Ruin. Is that supposed to be Lander? It’s really hard to tell. But it would be interesting if it was; it would be really interesting if this is how he sees himself.

Lander left the country right after my mother’s trial, off to Oxford to add to his elitist portfolio of accomplishments, while at home his father destroyed lives and his mother died.