Hoodie Heist
Back at your apartment, you spread the contraband across the kitchen table, shoving aside a fossilized bowl of cereal. The signature on the client invoice is a loopy, smug little scrawl you'd know anywhere: Roy Brennan. Your estranged uncle. The one with the lake house, the boat, and the suspiciously vague 'consulting' job.
You stare at the paper until your tea goes cold. Uncle Roy hired you to shred his own incriminating evidence. Either he didn't know it was you, or—worse—he absolutely did.