When the courtroom emptied, I thought less about the convictions than about the ordinary habits that had made them possible. Megan saved receipts, organized files by date, backed up her computer, and once gave me a password during an uneventful evening because she trusted me not to misuse it. Those small decisions became the bridge between the fear she lived with and the accountability she did not survive to witness. She had understood that people can dismiss suspicions, rewrite conversations, and perform grief, but documented patterns remain stubbornly themselves. My emergency leave lasted far longer than the Army’s allotted three days, yet before returning to service I knew I had completed the task Megan had quietly assigned me. She trusted me to follow the trail, and the trail carried her truth all the way into court.