I returned to the study just before eleven. The tray was quiet in my hands — tea, bread, cheese, a little fruit. Nothing elaborate. Just enough to mark the moment.

He was still seated, the manuscript open before him. His posture had changed — less guarded, more settled. He looked up as I entered, but said nothing.

I placed the tray on the desk and sat opposite him.

He didn’t answer immediately. He closed the manuscript gently, as if it were fragile. I could see his eyes were wet.

“I can hardly take it in,” he said. “That you would be prepared to make such an immense sacrifice for the sake of the police force.”

I nodded once, not in pride, but in recognition. “It was never about the force as an institution,” I said. “It was about the men who served it. The ones who would have been destroyed by the apparent truth — not because they were guilty, but because they were innocent.”

“I couldn’t save Reeve,” I continued. “But I could save what he stood for.”

Swift looked down at the tray, then back at me. “You did all this alone?”

“Yes,” I said. “To be sure it succeeded, I couldn’t afford to allow another soul to know the full details.”

He looked down again, then back at me. “Why me?”

I met his gaze. “Because you already knew too much. But not enough.”

I stood and crossed to the cabinet. “I cannot afford another breach,” I said. “Not now. Not after this. The archive must be destroyed.”

He looked at the papers, then at me. “I agree,” he said quietly. “It’s the wisest action to take.”