The room felt suddenly very cold.

“He buys the fake art with my stolen money,” Arthur continued. “The funds go to the charity, which is controlled by a Dupont shell company. The money comes out clean. And your signature is on the event registry.”

I felt the blood drain from my face.

If the federal authorities investigated the auction, they would find my name.

I was the coordinator. I had verified the provenance of the donations.

Tristan had not just stolen my savings; he had built a trap to ensure I would take the fall if his scheme went sideways.

“He did this on purpose,” I whispered.

“Of course he did,” Arthur said. “If the scheme fails, you go to prison. If it succeeds, he gets rich and walks away.”

I looked down at the black screen of my phone.

The image of my apartment building was still burned into my mind.

“How do I get you the badges?” I asked.

Arthur reached under his desk and pulled out a slim, silver laptop.

He pushed it toward me.

“Log into your firm’s administrative portal,” he said.