MAKING COPIES

MAKING COPIES
Hayden's Pov

I spent three days making copies of everything. Every file. Every photo. Every document. Every video. All of it backed up in multiple locations.

I bought ten USB drives at different stores paying cash each time. I loaded each one with complete copies of the files. Then I added a text document to each drive explaining what the files were and who was in them.

Michelle helped me organize everything. We made lists of the most important evidence. The clearest photos. The most damning documents. The videos that showed actual crimes being committed.

Papers covered the dining table in careful stacks, each one a piece of something bigger than us. Michelle worked methodically, her brow furrowed, labeling folders and cross-referencing dates while I double-checked timestamps and names. The glow from the laptop screens cast sharp shadows across the room, turning it into a war room instead of a home. With every file we sorted, the picture grew clearer—and more dangerous. We weren’t just holding suspicions anymore. We were holding proof.

"This is enough to put Victor Kane in prison for life," Michelle said as she sorted through files. "Probably dozens of other people too."

"If we can get it to the right people," I said. "That's the hard part."

I made a list of journalists I trusted. People who had done investigative reporting on powerful criminals before. People who were not afraid to publish controversial stories.

The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Guardian.

Three reporters with solid reputations who would not kill the story just because someone powerful wanted them to.

I said their names out loud like a quiet invocation—anchors in a storm that had been spiraling for weeks. These weren’t bloggers chasing clicks or outlets that could be leaned on with a single phone call. These were institutions built on investigation, on stubborn persistence.

If even one of them opened the envelope and took us seriously, the silence would shatter. And once the story broke in one newsroom, the others would follow. Victor Kane might control fear—but he didn’t control the truth.

I also made a list of lawyers. Not David because I still was not sure I could trust him completely. But other lawyers who specialized in criminal prosecution. People who would know what to do with this evidence.

And finally I made a list of law enforcement. FBI agents who had worked on corruption cases. Federal prosecutors who had a track record of going after billionaires and politicians.

"Are you sure about this?" Michelle asked. "Once we send these files out we can't take them back."

"I'm sure," I said. "We've waited long enough. Clara is in the hospital. They threatened our kids. We can't keep sitting on this information hoping they'll leave us alone."

"What if the journalists don't believe us?" Michelle asked. "What if they think the files are fake?"

"Then we give them ways to verify everything," I said. "Dates. Locations. Names of witnesses. We make it as easy as possible for them to confirm that all of this is real."

I spent the next day writing cover letters to go with each USB drive. I explained who I was. Why I had these files. What was in them. I included my contact information and offered to provide additional evidence if needed.

By the third letter my hand was cramping, but I kept going, forcing each sentence to be clear, measured, undeniable. No drama. No emotion. Just facts. Dates. Names. Verifiable details. I wanted whoever opened those envelopes to understand the weight of what they were holding. This wasn’t rumor or revenge—it was evidence.

When I finally lined the drives up on the table beside their sealed envelopes, they looked small and harmless. But I knew they carried enough truth to shatter powerful people.

Then I printed the letters and stuffed them into envelopes along with the USB drives.

"Now comes the hard part," I told Michelle. "Getting these to people without Victor Kane finding out."

"How are you going to do that?" Michelle asked.

"Very carefully," I said. "I'm going to mail them from different cities. Different states if I have to. Use fake return addresses. Pay cash for postage. Make it impossible to trace them back to us."

"That's going to take time," Michelle said.

"I know," I said. "But it's the only way to be safe."

I started with the journalists. I drove two hours to a city I had never been to before and mailed the first three packages from a post office there. I wore a hat and sunglasses and kept my head down the whole time.

Then I drove to another city and mailed packages to the lawyers. Then another city for the FBI agents.

By the time I finished it was dark and I was exhausted. But all ten packages were in the mail heading to people who could actually do something with the information.

"It's done," I told Michelle when I got back to the safe house. "The files are out there now. No taking them back."

"Good," Michelle said. "Now what?"

“Now we wait,” I said. “Wait for someone to respond. Wait for the story to break. Wait for Victor Kane to realize he’s been exposed.”

The words sounded steady, but patience has never felt so dangerous. Waiting meant silence. It meant pretending everything was normal while knowing a storm was building somewhere out of sight. Michelle nodded, though her eyes drifted toward the window, as if she expected headlights to appear at any moment.

Somewhere out there, Victor Kane was still moving through his world untouched, unaware the walls were beginning to close in. And when he finally realized? I doubted he would go quietly.

"How long do you think that will take?" Michelle asked.

"A week maybe," I said. "Journalists will need time to verify everything. The FBI will need time to open investigations. But once it starts it will move fast."

That night I barely slept. I kept thinking about those packages making their way through the mail system. About journalists opening them and reading the files. About FBI agents seeing the evidence.

Part of me was excited. We were finally doing something. Finally fighting back instead of just hiding.

But another part of me was terrified. Once those files went public Victor Kane would know exactly who sent them. And he would come after us with everything he had.

The next morning I got a call from Marcus.

"They know," he said. He sounded panicked. "Victor Kane knows you're planning something. He called me last night asking if I had heard from you."

"What did you tell him?" I asked.

"Nothing," Marcus said. "I said I hadn't talked to you in weeks. But Hayden he didn't believe me. He said if I was lying he would make me regret it."

"Just stick to the story," I said. "Tell him you don't know anything."

“That might have worked before,” Marcus said. “But now he’s suspicious. He’s watching me. Following me. I saw one of his guys outside my house this morning.”

The room went still. Not the quiet of calm—but the quiet of calculation. Marcus wasn’t the type to rattle easily, and the tightness in his voice said more than the words themselves.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

He nodded once. “Same build. Same dead eyes. Black SUV parked across the street. Didn’t even try to hide it.”

A chill worked its way down my spine. If Victor’s men were watching Marcus in broad daylight, then subtlety was over. This was pressure. A warning. And it meant the clock we’d set in motion was ticking faster than we thought.

"Then be extra careful," I said. "Don't do anything that makes him think you're helping us."

"It might be too late for that," Marcus said. "Hayden I think he's going to come after me. After my family."

"Get out of town," I said. "Take your wife and daughter somewhere safe. Somewhere Victor Kane can't find you."

"Where?" Marcus asked. "He has people everywhere."

"I don't know," I admitted. "But you need to do something. You can't just sit there waiting for him to make a move."

Marcus was quiet for a second. "I'm sorry I got you into this. If I had just refused to help them from the beginning none of this would be happening."

"It's not your fault," I said. "Victor Kane is the one doing this. Not you."

"Still," Marcus said. "I should have been braver."

"You're being brave now," I said. "That's what matters."