She had brought her own documentation—the original Harmon engagement files, printed, flagged, organized with the precision of someone who had been building this case in her own mind long before I contacted her. She handed the folder to Moyá without being asked. She was not someone who did things halfway.
He came home at eleven forty-three—seventeen minutes earlier than we’d planned. I was at the kitchen table. Moyá was visible. Gary opened the door, swept the room in one fast look, and made his calculation in under a second. He chose to perform. He smiled. “Elena,” he said. “What’s going on?”