She got to the office early again.
Not five AM this time—the paparazzi situation had quieted enough that six-thirty felt safe, the building lobby empty except for security and the particular stillness of a floor that hadn't yet filled with the noise of a working day. She made her coffee. Sat down. Opened a blank document.
Not a work document.
A thinking document. The kind she'd been keeping since the beginning—private, encrypted, the specific architecture of a plan mapped in language only she would ever read.
She stared at it for a moment.
Then she started writing.
The first problem was the records. Her records.
