FAKE INVOICES.
IAN.
GRACE.
WILL.
On a table sat a USB drive with a handwritten note.
Watch this first.
I plugged the drive into the cheap phone I’d been given when I was released. The video took a moment to load.
My father appeared on the screen.
He was thin, yellowish, his eyes sunken deep into his face. Behind him I could see his workshop and an old photograph of my mother.
“Michael,” he said, struggling to breathe. “If you’re watching this, you’ve been released. I’m sorry I couldn’t be
