Sam Puit, the man says. I think it's time we talk properly. Frank studies him a long moment before stepping back to let him in. Inside over coffee, neither of them drinks, Sam tells his story. He'd worked as Whitmore Constructions bookkeeper for 12 years.
Back when Walter Mallister started asking his questions, "I kept two sets of books, " Sam admits, shame heavy in his voice. The real ones and the ones Everett wanted the county to see. Sheriff Mallister found out came to me directly, asked me to testify. I told him I needed time. I was scared I had a family.
Two weeks later, he was dead. I never got the chance to decide. Josie sitting across the table keeps her voice gentle despite the weight in it. Why now after for all this time? I watched you walk into that diner.
Sam says, "Saw your father's eyes in yours. I've been driving past that place every night since trying to work up the nerve. I'm done being scared. " He says, "I still have the real records, every page. " He sets a worn leather satchel on the table between them.
Land deeds, altered permits, everything Everett Whitmore paid me to hide. I want to make it right, however late that is. Addie reaches across the table and takes his hand. It's not too late, she says. It matters more than you know.
Sam studies both sisters for a long moment, something loosening in his shoulders. You have his eyes, he says quietly. Both of you, it's strange seeing them again. He used to bring me coffee sometimes back when he was still asking questions. Never made me feel like a suspect.
Made me feel like someone worth listening to. That's more than most people managed back then. I should have trusted that instead of my fear. Frank sets a hand briefly on Sam's shoulder. You're trusting it now.
That counts. Will you testify? Josie asked gently. At the council meeting tomorrow, Sam is quiet for a moment, staring down at his own hands. I've spent 9 years telling myself I'd do it someday, he says.
Someday is not getting any closer unless I make it today. Yes, he finally says, "I'll testify. I'll bring everything I have. Josie feels something ease in her chest for the first time in days. Not victory exactly, just the sense of a door finally swinging open.
That evening, back at the diner after closing, Rosie unlocks the kitchen door. Addie waits by the old dusty camera bolted in the corner, flashlight in hand. Nobody's touched this thing in 3 years, Rosie admits. Not sure it even has power. A young technician named Priya, hired quietly through the county office, checks the wiring.
The cables frayed, she says after a few minutes, but the drive itself looks intact. She works carefully, patient, splicing a new connection with steady hands. After 20 minutes, a small red light blinks to life on the old unit. It's been recording, Priya says, surprised. Intermittently, whenever the connection held, she pulls footage onto a laptop, scrolling through days of grainy, broken video.
Josie watches over her shoulder, holding her breath without quite meaning to. Then there it is, a timestamp from that same Tuesday. Grant behind the counter. The footage is choppy, imperfect, but unmistakable all the same. We have him, Addie says quietly.