“I spent thirty-one years typing the exact legal definitions of chain of custody,” I said, leaning down slightly so she could see my eyes clearly. “I know every detective, every prosecutor, and every judge who has walked through the doors of the A.A. Birch Building since 1990. I know who signs the exhumation orders, and I know who processes financial fraud charges.”

She sat motionless for three long seconds before slowly swiveling her legs out of the vehicle. As soon as her feet touched the asphalt, I pulled the door shut, walked around to the driver’s side, and got back in.

I didn’t watch her in the rearview mirror as I pulled out of the parking lot. I didn’t need to. I had the bag on the seat beside me, the cash, the passport, and my son’s voice saved in digital memory, guiding me down the highway back toward East Nashville.

The morning sun was finally breaking through the heavy grey clouds over the city skyline, casting a long, bright beam across the asphalt ahead of me. David had left me the work, and I was going to finish it.