Calvin Turner’s smile didn’t just fade—it fractured.
For the first time since he walked into the room, he wasn’t the one in control of the conversation.
He looked from Walter… to Frank… to Mabel… and then back to me.
“What is this?” he asked, forcing a thin laugh. “Some kind of… misunderstanding?”
“No,” I said calmly. “It’s a pattern.”
I reached forward and finally touched the folder he’d slid across the table—but instead of opening it, I pushed it back toward him.
“You’ve been very busy,” I continued. “Gas stations. Coffee counters. Friendly conversations. You don’t rush them. You don’t scare them. You earn trust first.”
His jaw tightened.
“I don’t know what you think you—”
“Let me finish.”
