That morning had not always been ordinary, because three years earlier on a rainy Tuesday I had driven my aging silver sedan through the industrial district of Harborpoint City toward a discreet legal office known as Halbrook Legal Chambers.
I arrived wearing my maintenance uniform from Asterline Technologies, the same company where my father worked as a regional operations manager, though I had never told anyone I worked there as a floor maintenance worker.
I carried fifty thousand dollars in cash inside a plain envelope and placed it on the polished desk of attorney Vivian Halbrook, a woman whose expression never changed no matter what story entered her office.
“I need a blind trust structured beyond any public tracing,” I told her with steady calm, my hands still stained faintly with industrial cleaning solution, “I want ownership layered so deeply that even forensic financial investigation cannot connect it back to me, and I want complete anonymity in every public record related to lottery winnings.”
She studied me carefully for a long moment before responding in a measured tone that carried neither judgment nor curiosity.