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“What kind?”
“The kind that doesn’t just go away.”
My mouth went dry. I glanced at the brown folder.
“What’s in there?”
His gaze followed mine.
“Proof.”
“Of what?”
He didn't answer.
I stood so quickly my chair scraped against the floor.
“Proof of what?”
“Adriana, lower your voice.”
“There’s no one here.”
His eyes went to the window again. That was when I understood.
I wrapped my arms around myself.
“Who are you afraid of?”
He stared at me.
For a moment, I thought he would shut me out again. I saw the habit return to his face, the instinct to place himself between me and every ugly truth. Then something changed. Perhaps he heard the strain in my voice. Perhaps he knew we had run out of time.
“The Coccico family,” he told me.
I knew the name. Everyone did, though people spoke it carefully—if it was spoken at all. My father had worked for them for years, keeping the accounts for one of their freight companies. I sat again because my knees no longer felt dependable.
“What about them?”
“I found irregularities in their transactions.”
“You’re an accountant. You find irregularities every day.”
“Not like these.”
His eyes settled on the folder.
“How bad could it possibly be? Everyone knows they’re not entirely on the up and up.”
“I think they’re involved in human trafficking.”
My stomach turned. The rain grew louder against the glass. Or perhaps the room had become so silent that I could hear it clearer.
“No.”
“I’m sorry. I traced the payments. I kept copies. I thought if I gathered enough—”
“You thought what?”
