Fitch's lips curled into a deliberate, mocking smirk, his tone dripping with a smug "I told you so" arrogance.
"I warned you this was a colossal waste of time. I run a clean ship. My company's books are spotless. Where did you think you were going to find this 'smoking gun'?" He threw his hands up, looking entirely at ease, as if he were holding all the cards. "All this theatrics, and for what? Just draining taxpayer dollars."
He waited for Ethan to snap back. A harsh reprimand or a raised voice would mean the detective was frustrated, which would mean Fitch was still winning.
But Ethan didn't give him the satisfaction.
Acting as if he hadn't heard a single word of the arrogant speech, Ethan walked calmly to the table. His absolute silence made the already stifling air in the room feel suffocating.
Fitch's eyes darted nervously to the slim briefcase in Ethan's hand, a flicker of genuine anxiety cracking his confident facade.
Slowly, deliberately, Ethan pulled out a single, thin file folder and dropped it onto the cold metal table with a sharp *smack*.
Fitch flinched at the sound but quickly forced out another cold laugh. "What's this? You guys can't find real evidence, so we're playing parlor tricks now?"
When Ethan remained completely unresponsive, the suffocating silence began to erode Fitch's nerves. His panic morphed into reckless, venomous attacks.
"How much is Callahan paying you to be his attack dog? Whatever his price is, I'll double it!"
"Just nod your head, close the case, and we all walk away happy. Why are we wasting time on this circus?"
Ethan slowly raised his eyes, his gaze sweeping over Fitch's desperately smug face. He thought of what Leilani had endured in Northern Myanor, the sheer hell she had barely survived. Knowing the man sitting across from him was one of the architects of that nightmare made Ethan's blood boil. It took every ounce of his professional discipline not to reach across the table.
"You seem awfully proud of yourself, Mr. Sherwood."


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