Jim Callahan slumped in his worn office chair, rubbing his temples. The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, their glare bouncing off the stacks of files and legal pads cluttering his desk. His office was small, unremarkable—a rented space in a crumbling brick building above a dry cleaner. But it was his.
The Vega file sat open in front of him, its contents spread like a Hector Vega’s autopsy report, SunPharm’s sanitized public statements, and hastily printed emails that hinted at something far more sinister. Maria Vega’s tearful words echoed in his
"They killed him, Mr. Callahan. My husband was murdered because he wanted to do the right thing."