Caleb doesn’t accuse.
That’s what hurts.
If he did, I’d know where to stand. Accusation has shape. It gives you something solid to push against. A charge. A fault line. A place to anchor your response.
He doesn’t give me that.
Instead, he asks a single question.
“Is there anything I should know?”
It happens late afternoon, in one of the smaller conference rooms that rarely gets used unless someone wants privacy without making a production out of it. The door is closed but not locked. The lights are on but dimmed slightly, as if the room itself is trying not to intrude.
We sit across from each other at the narrow table.
No files open.
No tablets out.
No agenda.
That should’ve been my first clue.
Caleb’s posture is relaxed. Not defensive. Not confrontational. He folds his hands l
