My hand gripped the cold metal safety rail of the bed.

My father walked in, followed by a woman with short gray hair and a black leather briefcase.

“Hannah, this is Karen Croft,” my father said, closing the door firmly behind them.

Karen nodded to me and immediately pulled a rolling tray table over to the side of my bed.

She opened her briefcase and began laying out printed spreadsheets alongside the documents from my folder.

“Your father told me about the situation,” Karen said, her voice dry and incredibly precise.

She adjusted a pair of thin reading glasses.

“Your husband and his mother have been running a highly organized system of shell companies,” she said.

“What kind of system?” I asked.

“They buy distressed suburban properties under dummy corporations,” Karen said, pointing to a column of numbers. “Then they sell them back to Parker Realty at twice the purchase price.”

“Is that illegal?” I asked.

“It is when you use forged signatures to secure the bank loans,” Karen said.

She pulled out a high-resolution photocopy of a mortgage application.