He slid the folder across the desk. “Everything’s in here—documents, testimonies, even the footage that never made it to trial. I buried it. I let someone else take the fall… because I was told to.”
I didn’t touch the file. Just stared at him. “Why now?”
He took a shaky breath. “Because I’m dying. And because the people I protected aren’t in charge anymore. But they were watching then. Watching both of us.”
I opened the folder. Photos. A surveillance log. A name I hadn’t heard in years—Desmond Tate. The guy they said was my partner, the one who flipped on me.
Monroe looked me in the eye. “You were framed to protect a federal asset. Desmond was on their payroll. And I made you the scapegoat.”
I clenched my fists. My whole twenties—gone.
“I’m not asking forgiveness,” he said. “I’m asking if you want to finish what they started… and expose what I couldn’t.”
The lesson?
Sometimes justice wears the robe… and the mask. But when truth is finally laid on the table, it’s not just about clearing your name—it’s about deciding what you’ll do with the power that was always yours to begin with.
