The line went dead.

I looked at the driver in the rearview mirror.

“Change of plans,” I said. “Take the South Service Road to the private aviation terminal.”

The driver nodded and accelerated, swerving past a yellow cab.

My heart beat in a slow, heavy rhythm against my ribs.

I opened the leather folder on my lap.

Inside were the forensic accounting reports from Daniel Price.

They detailed every dollar Preston had siphoned from my father’s foundation.

There were also the signature pages where Preston had signed Samantha Mercer’s name as a co-conspirator.

He had set her up to take the fall if the domestic accounts were ever audited.

I closed the folder and zipped my coat.

The car turned off the main highway, past a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire.

The private terminal was a low, modern building of gray concrete and tinted glass.

A single security gate stood between the road and the tarmac.

The driver stopped the sedan at the guard shack.

I rolled down my window, letting the cold rain spray across my face.

“Claire Hayes,” I told the guard. “Agent Miller is expecting me.”