The next months were a blur of courtrooms, camera flashes, and interrogations. I walked into the federal courthouse in Denver with no lawyer and handed over every shred of evidence I had. I described how I looked the other way when the numbers did not add up. How shipments were being moved through construction sites. How families disappeared from neighborhoods I supposedly revitalized.
The world watched a titan fall. “VALE EMPIRE IN RUINS. CEO FACES PROSECUTION AFTER SCANDAL.” “MISSING WIFE OF PRESTON VALE FOUND WORKING AT SHELTER FOR SURVIVORS.” The news anchors spat my name like a curse, then like a tragedy, then like a redemption story no one fully trusted.
When I was released on conditional bail, I found Talia working at a support center in Albuquerque. Her hair was shorter now. Her voice steadier. She looked at me with a mixture of relief and exhaustion.
“You are alive,” she whispered.
“I am trying to be,” I replied.
She embraced me. It was not a reunion of lovers. It was two survivors leaning on each other long enough to stand.