of her safehouses,” he says. “She kept backups here.”
Inside, the place is spartan. Bunk beds, a small kitchenette, shelves of supplies, and more files. He hands me a tablet and gestures for me to sit.
“Watch this.”
It’s a video—my mother, looking older, tired, but fierce.
“If you’re seeing this, I didn’t make it,” she says. “But you can still finish what continue reading …
