He didn’t open it; he just tapped it against his palm.

“I’ve spent the last three weeks cleaning up my paper trail,” he said.

“Good for you,” I said.

“But I didn’t clean it all,” he said.

He took another step, cornering me against the bench.

“I left a few digital breadcrumbs,” he said. “Just in case.”

“What did you do, Tristan?” I asked.

The silence in the room felt suffocating.

“Every single discrepancy in the pre-auction ledger is tied to your IP address,” he said.

I stared at him, my breath catching in my throat.

“That’s impossible,” I said.

“It’s very possible,” he said. “I used your old login credentials from the firm.”

“Those accounts were closed months ago,” I said.

“I reopened them,” he said. “It’s amazing what a little social engineering can do.”

He leaned in, his face inches from mine.

“If Arthur Sterling starts digging, the trail leads straight to you,” he said.

“Arthur isn’t stupid,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “He’ll see through it.”

“Will he?” Tristan asked.

He laughed, a short, dry sound.