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The vanilla buttercream cake was melting into a sugary puddle, the candles had burned down to blackened stubs, and the eight place settings remained untouched. It was my grandmother’s seventy-ninth birthday, yet she sat in total isolation, staring at a feast that no one came to share. While the rest of the family was off living their “blessed” lives in the luxury of Aspen, I was driving through the dark to sing to her in the silence. But just twelve hours later, two mysterious strangers would knock on her door, handing me a secret folder that would ignite a brutal, headline-making war for justice.
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