“You’re not going to like this,” Lana said, dropping a flash drive onto Sierra’s counter.
Sierra glanced up from the Phoenix trial files. “That’s your version of ‘good morning’?”
Lana crossed her arms. “I pulled parking garage footage from a WestTech facility dated three years ago—the night of the crash.”
Sierra’s hands paused mid-turn of a page. “What did you find?”
“Watch.”
She loaded the footage. A valet supervisor’s dashcam captured the blurred edge of Julian’s black sedan pulling out. A second vehicle, unmarked and idling near the ramp, suddenly accelerated—ramming Julian’s car from the side.
Sierra’s breath caught.
“License plate?” she asked.
“Registered to a shell company. Owned by—guess who?”
Sierra’s voice turned ice. “Everett Kane.”
Lana nodded. “He had motive. He wanted Julian out. And you? Just convenient wreckage.”
Sierra stared at the frozen frame.
“That bastard,” she whispered.
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