Adam Zoric was the star witness. He hadn’t wanted to come. Lena had driven to Maine and sat on his porch for six hours until he finally opened the door.
The trial began eighteen months later. The courtroom was a sterile box in lower Manhattan, but it felt like a cathedral. Every seat was taken. Journalists from the Financial Times sat next to burned retirees in worn sneakers. Julian Voss arrived in a bespoke suit, his silver beard trimmed, his smile a razor blade.
The first sign that something was wrong in the gleaming Ferrum Capital tower wasn’t a whistleblower’s cry or a crashing stock price. It was a spreadsheet.
“You did it,” he said.