“And what did you do with the money?”
He laughed nervously.
“Is this an interrogation?”
“No. An interrogation would have a formal process and counsel available. This is your sister asking whether you helped people who may have endangered her.”
For a moment, something resembling shame crossed his face.
Then he looked away.
“I had debts.”
I didn’t speak.
“Business debts,” he continued. “My firm expanded too quickly. I took on partners who weren’t reliable.”
“How much?”
His eyes filled with tears.
“Almost a million.”
I felt a horrible sense of familiarity.
My father had borrowed money.
Hidden it.
Then let Victor Sloane use that secrecy to control him.
Now Michael had done the same thing.
“Victor helped you,” I said.
He nodded.
“He said it was an advance on future work.”
“What work?”
“Research. Networking. Background information.”
“About me?”
Michael swallowed.
“Sometimes.”
I felt my chest tighten.
“Tell me exactly what you gave him.”
He stared at the floor.
“Public records.”
“Michael.”
“Your old addresses. Professional biographies. Articles. Information Dad mentioned about your career.”
“And my movements?”
He shook his head quickly.
“Not directly.”
I waited.
He rubbed his face.
“There was a family calendar.”
“What family calendar?”
“Mom keeps one. Birthdays, visits, travel, appointments. When Caitlyn wrote to you, she wanted to know whether you might come. Mom started asking around.”
I felt sick.
“Did you give Victor access to it?”
Michael didn’t answer.
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
The word came out in a whisper.
I stepped backward.
For a second, I wanted to scream.
Instead, I asked, “Did you know why he wanted it?”
“No.”
“Did you ever ask?”
Michael’s silence was devastating.
He’d accepted hundreds of thousands of dollars from a company tied to a deadly corruption investigation.
He’d shared family information.
He’d helped a stranger track his own sister.
And apparently, he hadn’t once stopped to ask why.
“You could have gotten people killed,” I said.
He looked up sharply.
“I didn’t know!”
“But you knew enough to keep it secret.”
His eyes filled with tears.
“I was desperate.”
“So was Dad.”
He stared at me.
I shook my head.
“And look what his desperation cost.”
That afternoon, investigators interviewed Michael with counsel present.
His bank records, communications, and consulting agreement became part of a broader financial investigation.
The anonymous photograph was preserved for forensic review.
We couldn’t yet establish who had taken it.
But we did learn something important.
The payment labeled Project Sparrow had been divided into three installments.
The first had arrived after Michael supplied background information on me.
The second followed a meeting between Victor and a foreign intermediary.
The third had been transferred shortly before my sister’s ceremony.
Michael claimed he hadn’t understood the connection.
Perhaps he hadn’t.
But ignorance did not erase his choices.
When his attorney escorted him from the interview room, Michael saw me standing beside the window.
For a moment, he looked like the little boy I’d once known.
“Erin.”
I didn’t turn away.
He approached slowly.
“I know you hate me.”
I looked at him.
“I don’t hate you.”
He swallowed.
“Then why can’t you look at me?”
“Because I don’t know who I’m looking at anymore.”
His face crumpled.
“I never wanted anyone to hurt you.”
I held his gaze.
“Wanting isn’t the same as protecting.”
He nodded.
Tears slid down his cheeks.
“I’m sorry.”
I took a breath.
“Then cooperate fully.”
“I will.”
“Even if it costs you your career?”
He hesitated.
Then nodded.
“Yes.”
For the first time, I believed he might be telling the truth.
Not because he’d suddenly become trustworthy.
But because he had finally stopped asking me to excuse him.
That evening, Caitlyn found me sitting alone outside the chapel near the installation’s main building.
The sun was setting.
A cool breeze moved through the trees.
She sat beside me without speaking.
For a while, we watched the sky.
Then she said, “I used to think you forgot about me.”
I looked at her.
“Never.”
“Dad said you chose your career.”
“I chose to tell the truth.”
She nodded.
“I know that now.”
I swallowed.
“I’m sorry I didn’t contact you more.”
Caitlyn stared at her hands.
“I wrote you letters.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“When I was fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen.”
I turned fully toward her.
“You did?”
She nodded.
“I sent them to the address Grandma gave me.”
I remembered receiving two letters.
One on my twenty-eighth birthday.
Another when Caitlyn graduated high school.
But she’d apparently written more.
“How many?”
“Dozens.”
I felt cold.
“I only received two.”
Caitlyn’s face changed.
“What?”
I shook my head.
“Two, Caitlyn.”
She started crying.
“Mom told me you didn’t answer because you didn’t want anything to do with us.”
I stared at her.
