“No,” Ethan said, pulling a heavy brass key from his drawer. “My father’s personal ledgers.”

He walked over to the painting of the Hudson River that hung on the far wall.

He swung the frame open to reveal a digital keypad.

He typed in a code, and the steel door of the safe clicked open with a heavy metallic thud.

Inside lay several leather-bound books and a stack of yellowed envelopes.

Ethan reached inside, his fingers brushing past the corporate papers until he found a small, black leather binder.

He pulled it out and brought it to the desk, flipping the pages quickly under the green shaded lamp.

“What is it?” I asked, stepping closer to see.

The pages were filled with columns of numbers written in a precise, elegant hand.

Next to several entries, there were initials written in red ink: *M.A.*

“Maria Alvarez,” Ethan whispered, his finger tracing the letters.

My heart stopped.

“He was keeping track of us?” I asked.

“Not just tracking you,” Ethan said, his eyes scanning the numbers. “He was moving money.”