I did what I used to do for the United States government.
I built a case.
Quietly. Patiently. Over six months, while I poured his coffee and smiled at his dinners and let him keep believing I was asleep. I documented every transaction. I traced every dollar. I preserved every message. I pulled in a forensic accountant I trusted, an old professional friend, to make it bulletproof. And I called someone else, too — Laura Benning, who had been a young attorney in my office years ago and was now an Assistant U.S. Attorney, and who remembered exactly who I was.
“Camille Winters,” she’d said when I called. “My God. I used to want to be you.” A pause. “What have you got?”
I told her. There was a long silence on the line, the silence of a prosecutor realizing she’s been handed a gift.
“Send me everything,” she said.
