As she reads, I listen to her carefully, taking notes, writing down the names I recognize. But really, I’m listening for just one name—one person who I am trying to figure out whether to trust, whether Owen trusts, despite any and all evidence that he shouldn’t. When I hear it, when she says Charlie Smith, I stop writing. I tell her I need to go.

“Be careful,” she says.

This instead of goodbye, instead of her usual “I love you.” Considering the circumstances, considering what I need to figure out how to do now, it’s the same thing.

I stand up and look out the conference room windows. It has started raining, Austin nightlife active below, despite it. People walk the streets with umbrellas, heading to dinner and shows, debating about a nightcap or a late movie. Or deciding they’ve had enough, that the rain is getting harder, and they want to go home. Those are the lucky ones.

I turn toward the glass door. U.S. Marshal Sylvia sits on the other side. She is looking at her phone, either disinterested in me or busy with something more important than her babysitting assignment. Perhaps she is busy with the one thing I know about too well. Finding Owen. Finding Bailey.

I’m about to walk into the hall and demand a status update, when I see Grady walking down the hall.

He knocks on the door as he opens it, and smiles at me—a softer Grady, who seems to have thawed somewhat.

“They have her,” he says. “They have Bailey. She’s safe.”

I let out a breath, tears filling my eyes. “Oh, thank goodness. Where is she?”

“Up at campus, they’re bringing her back here,” he says. “Can we talk for a minute before they do? I just think it’s really important that we are on the same page with her about what the plan is going to be.”

What the plan is going to be. He means the plan to move her, to move us. He means that he wants me to help hold it all steady when he tells her that life as she knows it is over.

“And we need to talk about something else,” he says. “I didn’t want to get into it before, but I haven’t been completely transparent with you…”

“I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“We received a package yesterday with a zip drive of Owen’s work emails. I had to verify they were real, and they are. He kept meticulous records of the pressure Avett was applying to push through the IPO, despite Owen’s objections. And all the work he did after to try and make it okay…”

“It wasn’t just a specific guess then?” I say. “About Owen’s culpability in all this?”

“No, I guess not,” he says.

“So it’s really my husband who tamped it down?” I say.