He opened an anonymous message account and started writing. "You should know the reports aren't accurate." He deleted it. He tried again, mentioning Bellamy's first handwritten notes and the conversation Mason had with him later.
Then he stopped, realizing that even an anonymous message might be traced or recognized from details only an officer would know. He had a mortgage, a wife who worked part-time, and a son who needed expensive speech therapy. He could not casually gamble their security on a decision made in a breakroom.
"What are you doing?" Bellamy's voice startled him. Puren looked up too quickly. Bellamy stood in the doorway, arms folded, watching the phone. "Checking my schedule," Puren said.
Bellamy glanced toward the screen, which Puren locked. "You've been strange since Saturday. Real quiet." Puren attempted a shrug.
"Not much to say." Bellamy stepped closer. "Then keep it that way. Mason doesn't need anybody running his mouth while this review is open."
Puren felt anger rise, but fear kept his face still. "I'm not talking about it." Bellamy studied him. "Good. Remember whose side you're on."
He turned to leave, then stopped. "You know how people are. Some guy flashes a federal badge, and everybody forgets what happened before that." Puren wanted to answer that what happened before the badge was precisely what mattered. Instead, he watched Bellamy walk away and wondered whether silence had already made him complicit.
At home, Francis reread the anonymous post after Regina went upstairs. The number of comments had increased. The details had become more elaborate, as if repetition were generating new evidence from nothing. He recognized the mechanism from investigations involving misinformation: a claim appeared anonymously, was repeated by someone who appeared confident, and then returned as a supposedly independent source. By the time someone demanded proof, the original assertion was buried beneath all the people who had accepted it. Francis closed the laptop and stared at his reflection in the dark screen.
The next Monday, his work life finally collided with the dispute. Deputy Director Howard Larson's assistant called shortly after eight and requested that Francis come to the federal office at eleven. No subject was provided. Francis already knew the likely reason. The Hartwell financial case was entering a delicate phase, and the government had spent nearly two years tracing contracts, transfers, and intermediaries associated with a major suspected fraud network. Francis was part of the lead investigative team, which made his sudden appearance in a local controversy a concern for everyone responsible for preserving the case's credibility.
Larson's office occupied the end of a long corridor in the federal building. Dark wooden furniture, framed commendations, and organized shelves gave the room the deliberate calm of a man who had worked for decades around crises. Larson was tall, silver-haired, and sparing with unnecessary conversation. He gestured toward a chair without standing. "I've seen the video," he said.