Daniel told him.
His son went silent.
Ben had been sixteen when Ava died.
Younger brother by fourteen months.
They had fought constantly.
Then after she died, Ben seemed to age five years in six weeks.
“Does Mom know?”
“Yes.”
“What do the pictures mean?”
“I don't know yet.”
“You just said the rail was gone.”
“Yes.”
“So they lied.”
Daniel stopped.
“No.”
“What?”
“We don't know that.”
“Dad.”
“We know the official description may be wrong.”
“We know the images contradict the idea that she climbed over an intact barrier.”
“That is not the same as knowing who knew what.”
Ben became angry.
“Why are you defending them?”
“I’m not.”
“It sounds like it.”
Daniel rubbed his forehead.
“Because I spent four years hating sentences that said Ava definitely did something nobody actually saw.”
“I’m not going to replace one certainty with another because this one feels better.”
Ben went quiet.
Then:
“Mom said things like that too.”
Daniel knew what he meant.
Claire eventually accepted the accident report because certainty gave grief a shape.
Ava climbed.
Ava took a risk.
Ava fell.
Tragic.
Preventable only by Ava.
Painful but closed.
Daniel had rejected it because he knew his daughter.
That was not evidence either.
“I know.”
Ben asked:
“Can I come home?”
“You have class.”
“I don't care.”
Daniel smiled sadly.
“Ava would haunt me if I let you miss your structural midterm because of her.”
Ben almost laughed.
“True.”
“Come Friday.”
“Okay.”
Then:
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Don't let anybody take the card.”
“I won't.”
The next morning Daniel called Rebecca Shaw, a civil attorney recommended by his former newspaper editor.
Rebecca had no dramatic reaction when he explained.
Good lawyers rarely did.
Her first question was:
“Do you still have the original damaged card?”
“Yes.”
“Has the recovered data been written back onto it?”
“No.”
“The lab provided an image?”
“Yes.”
“Hash values?”
Daniel stared.
“What?”
She smiled through the phone.
“Send me the lab paperwork, not the files yet.”
“Do not alter the recovered copy.”
“Do not post anything.”
“Do not hand your camera to police without counsel and a proper process.”
“Save every video of yesterday's contact.”
“Ask Ms. Grant to preserve her phone video without editing.”
Daniel wrote everything down.
Then Rebecca asked:
“Did you settle a claim after your daughter’s death?”
His stomach tightened.
“Yes.”
“How long ago?”
“Three years.”
“Against whom?”
“City and Harbor Point Boardwalk Authority.”
“Release language?”
“I don't remember.”
“I need it.”
“Does the settlement mean this changes nothing?”
“I didn't say that.”
“Could it?”
“Yes.”
She was quiet.
“Mr. Reed, evidence can matter in several ways.”
“Civil money is only one.”
That sentence became important later.