"Peter learned the executives planned to burn the original server room," Grace said. "He wanted the fire."
The words landed wrong in my ears. Ruth sat up straighter.
"He wanted it," Grace repeated, "because he believed it would erase the network's central access keys. The keys that let Sentinel reach every node. He thought β if the keys burned, the system would die."
"But it didn't," Simone said.
"No. Because Peter helped disable the sprinkler alert, and he intended the warehouse to be empty, and Victor Kane ordered Caleb Morris inside to retrieve equipment and allowed the man to die."
She said it plainly. No build-up. As if the facts were sharp enough on their own.
"Caleb Morris," Ruth said, writing it down. "A Sentinel contractor?"
"Twenty-nine years old. Victor sent him in after the fire alarm. Peter knew the fire would happen. He did not know Caleb was inside."
"And the body," I said. "You identified it."
Grace looked at me, and for the first time that day her composure slipped. "They showed me his watch. Peter's watch. And they showed me dental records." Her voice thinned. "The records were manipulated. I didn't know that. I took what they put in front of me, and I buried a stranger's son under my son's name, and I stood at that grave every year and told my granddaughter her father was at peace."
The kitchen went quiet. Somewhere outside, a fire engine's radio crackled.
"Afterward," Grace said, "Sentinel told Peter the false death protected Sophie. If he accepted a new identity and kept maintaining the system, his family would remain safe."
"And he agreed," I said.
"He agreed." She picked up the torn napkin and tore it again, methodically. "He let us bury another man. He let his daughter grow up visiting a grave with the wrong name on it. And he told himself it was the price of keeping her alive."
I thought about Caleb Morris. Twenty-nine years old. A name I had never heard until today, and now a name I would never forget.
"Was it?" Ruth asked. "Was she actually in danger?"
"I don't know." Grace's hands stopped. "Maybe. Maybe they would have come for her. Maybe it was leverage and nothing more. Either way, he paid it β and every year he kept paying, and every year the price was the same: stay, maintain the system, and never tell."
Simone looked up from her tablet. "For eight years he worked under another name inside Sentinel's restricted operations team."
"Yes."
"He monitored the neighborhood nodes."
"Yes."
"He removed evidence when residents complained."
Grace nodded. "When someone reported a strange device, Peter was the one who made it disappear before the police arrived. That's why your company could never keep anything in place long enough, Simone. He was that good."
"He wrote code allowing technicians to enter homes through smart locks," Simone continued, reading from her notes.
"Yes."
"He also secretly copied data identifying every person who used the network for burglary."
"Yes." Grace met Simone's eyes. "He believed he could eventually expose the system. But each year made his own responsibility larger. The network expanded. People were robbed. Families were watched. Peter kept collecting proof."
"And never delivered it," I finished.
"And never delivered it."
Eight years. I tried to picture it β a man going to work every morning under someone else's name, doing the things that kept the system running, filing away the proof in folders no one ever opened. Each year the folders got heavier and the door out got further away. At some point the evidence stopped being a plan and started being the only thing that made the staying bearable.
I thought about the man in my attic β the bruise forming on his face, Victor's hand on his collar, the drywall coming off in pieces. Eight years of carrying all of it. Eight years of believing one more year of evidence would be the year that made it worth it.
"Grace," I said, "why are you telling me this?"
"Because you need to understand what is in your house right now." She stood and walked to the window again, looking at my roof. "Not a hero. Not a monster. A man who made a series of small surrendering decisions, and every one of them felt necessary at the time, and every one of them led him to my granddaughter's bedroom window."
The tablet feed crackled. On the screen, Peter had finished cutting. The section of drywall leaned against Mia's bed.
Behind it stood a black metal cabinet, bolted to the studs.
Victor attached a portable drive to its front panel. A small light on the drive began to blink.
Simone's head came up sharply. "He's taking the relay offline. The transfer β"
She didn't finish. She was already running for the door.