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intake form. Then photos. Then bank transfers from city contractors to shell charities controlled by Grant’s campaign treasurer.
My pregnant daughter ran into my office, her face covered in fresh b:ruises. Her husband, a beloved local politician, casually strolled in behind her, shutting the door.
His abuse had opened the door.
His corruption walked through it.
Grant stared at the screen as if watching his own execution.
“My lawyers—”
