Her name was Donna.

Mom said it quietly, like she was setting something fragile on a table.

"Donna Merritt.

My sister."

I hadn't known Mom had a sister.

I hadn't known a lot of things.

Foss sat down.

Webb stood near the door with his arms crossed.

Neither of them rushed her.

"Donna worked for Victor Hale," Mom said.

"Not willingly — she owed him money, and he collected debts in ways that didn't give people much choice.

She ran logistics for him.

Scheduling, routing, contacts.

She didn't know at first what she was routing.

By the time she understood, she was already in too deep to leave."

"What did you witness?" Foss asked.

"I went to meet Donna for lunch.

A place near the waterfront.

I arrived early.

I saw two men walk Victor Hale's accountant — a man named Gerald Tate — into the alley beside the restaurant." Mom paused.

"I heard what happened.

I didn't see all of it.

But I saw Hale give the order.

And I saw them carry Gerald Tate out."

"You witnessed the killing," Webb said.

"Yes."

"And Donna was there?"

"No.

She arrived twenty minutes later.

She didn't know." Mom looked up.

"When I went to the Marshals, the condition I gave them was that Donna's name stayed out of it completely.

That she'd be granted immunity and relocated separately.

That Hale would never know she had a sister who testified."

"And that's what your handler promised," Foss said.

"Yes."

Foss leaned forward.

"Katherine.

Where is Donna now?"

The question sat in the air.

Mom's jaw tightened.

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"You don't know?"

"We lost contact eight months into my protection.

My handler told me she had been successfully relocated.

He gave me a code word she and I had agreed on — proof of life." Mom's voice stayed steady, but her hands were not.

"The code word was wrong."

The room was very quiet.

"He gave you the wrong code word," Webb said.

"Yes."

"Did you report it?"

"I reported it.

I was told it was a clerical error.

That Donna was safe and the correct word would be passed along." She stopped.

"It never was."

Foss stood up and walked to the corner of the room.

She made a call with her back turned, speaking in a low voice I couldn't fully hear.

I looked at Mom.

"You think something happened to her," I said.

"I think someone in the original operation was working for Hale," Mom said.

"I think that person gave Hale information.

I think Donna may have been used to find it." She pressed her lips together.

"I think the wrong code word wasn't a clerical error."

Foss came back to the table.

"I've requested a welfare check on the file," she said.

"It'll take a few hours."

"You won't find anything in the file," Mom said quietly.

"Because whoever altered it was thorough."

"Then we'll look outside the file."

Mom nodded.

She wasn't crying.

She looked like someone who had cried about this already — alone, at night, for a long time — and had arrived now at something harder and colder than tears.

"There's one more thing," she said.

Webb looked at her.

"Gerald Tate — the accountant Hale had k*lled — he had a briefcase with him when they walked him into that alley.

I saw it.

Hale's men didn't have it when they came out." Mom's eyes were steady.

"I went back after.

It was still there.

I took it home.

I opened it."

"What was inside?" Webb asked.

"Eleven years of financial records.

Shell companies.

Transfers.

Names." She paused.

"I made the copies I told you about.

But I didn't give the originals to the Marshals.

I kept them."

The entire room shifted in weight.

"You still have the originals," Foss said.

"Yes."

"Where?"

Mom looked at me for one brief moment.

Then she said, "With someone Hale would never think to look for."