“I know,” she said. “But tired is not the same as helpless.”

Now she was gone.

And Greg had fired me because I buried her.

I opened a new email draft to my attorney, Dana Moretti, a labor lawyer my mother had once known through church. I attached the termination email, the funeral notice, screenshots of my leave requests, Greg’s text, and the employee handbook section showing the bereavement leave policy.

Then I created a second encrypted folder.

That one went to Dana as well, with a separate message.

I need whistleblower counsel. Urgent. Evidence of fraud, falsified safety records, retaliation, and possible public endangerment.

My finger hovered over the trackpad.

For five years, I had lived afraid.

Afraid of losing my job. Afraid of missing bills. Afraid of being labeled difficult. Afraid of men like Greg, who smiled while rearranging people like furniture.

Then I looked at my mother’s picture.

Her smile almost seemed amused.

I clicked send.

Within six minutes, Dana called.

“Claire,” she said, her voice sharp and fully awake, “do not speak to anyone at Halden & Price. Do not answer Greg. Do not sign anything. Come to my office now.”

I stared through the windshield at traffic moving past, ordinary and indifferent.

For the first time since I had read that email, I stopped crying.

“Dana,” I said, “there’s more.”

There was a pause.

“How much more?”

I looked at the flash drive in my palm.

“Enough to bury them.”

PART 3

Dana Moretti’s office sat on the fourth floor of an old brick building in downtown Columbus, squeezed between a tax accountant and a dentist advertising emergency root canals. It did not look like the kind of place where corporations went to die.

That was the first thing I liked about it.

Dana was fifty-six, short, silver-haired, and calm in the way only dangerous people know how to be calm. She wore no jewelry except a simple wedding band and used a yellow legal pad instead of a tablet. When I arrived, she looked once at my black dress, my swollen eyes, and the cardboard box in my arms.

“Your mother’s funeral was Friday?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“And they fired you this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Did they give you severance?”

“No.”

“Did they ask you to sign a release?”