I saw transfers to luxury European hotels, private jet charters, and high-end jewelry boutiques.

None of these transactions matched Preston’s official business expenses.

He was funding Samantha’s lifestyle with my family’s heritage.

The cab finally stopped in front of a brownstone in Brooklyn Heights.

The streetlights cast long, shivering shadows across the wet pavement.

I paid the driver and we ran up the stone steps to Arthur’s front door.

I rang the bell, hoping desperately that he was home.

After a long moment, the porch light flickered on.

The heavy wooden door opened, and Arthur Vance stood there, wearing a flannel robe and holding a mug of tea.

He looked at my wet clothes and then at Mia, his brow furrowing with concern.

“Claire?” he said, stepping aside. “What on earth has happened?”

“Preston is trying to commit me, Arthur,” I said, stepping into the warm hallway. “And I think he’s stealing from the company.”

Arthur closed the door and locked the deadbolt.

“Come inside,” he said quietly. “Let’s look at the numbers.”

We followed him into his study, a room lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and stacks of financial journals.