She said nothing.
“Who prepared the documents?”
Still nothing.
“Who told Ryan to come to this base with forged credentials?”
A soft click sounded on the line.
She had hung up.
A minute later, Alvarez returned.
“Call was routed through a civilian number registered to a prepaid device,” he said. “Security is preserving the log.”
“Of course it was.”
“Ma’am.” He hesitated. “CID wants to speak with you. The general has also been informed.”
I gathered the court record, the financial reports, and the forged copies into one folder.
“Then let’s not keep anyone waiting.”
The security office smelled of burnt coffee, paper, and rain-damp uniforms. Ryan sat behind a reinforced glass panel in a small interview room, wrists free but posture collapsed. He still wore the navy sweater I had last seen thrown over the back of our bedroom chair. His hair was uncombed. His face, usually arranged into wounded superiority, looked pale and unfinished.
For seven years, I had known every expression he used to control a room. The disappointed sigh. The wounded silence. The small smile when he thought he had won. But now there was nothing polished left.
When he saw me through the glass, he rose halfway.
“Emily.”
One of the CID agents, a woman named Special Agent Price, stood beside me with a tablet in hand.
“You don’t have to speak to him,” she said.
