Thirty days became twenty-two. Moyá called Tuesday morning while Gary showered. I stood in the kitchen, coat on, keys in hand. “We need to move the timeline,” she said. “Friday.” I set my keys down carefully. It was Tuesday. I had seventy-two hours to be ready for something I’d spent over three months building.
I spent Tuesday at my desk organizing everything — the Harmon incorporation, Cyprus filings, the Martin Gale watchlist flag, Darnell’s report, Yvonne’s recording, the hotel charges, the dead child’s social security number wearing my husband’s face. I pulled it into one encrypted file and labeled it, with the same dark humor I’d carried for months, Housekeeping—Final.