She looked at Graham, then back to me, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as she prepared to make her move.

“There is a discretionary fund,” Gloria murmured, her fingers tightening around the strap of her handbag.

“A private account, completely separate from the foundation’s public ledger.”

She glanced at Graham, who was still staring at the polished mahogany floor.

“We can transfer three hundred thousand dollars to an account in your name by tomorrow morning,” she said.

I kept my expression entirely neutral.

“Three hundred thousand?” I asked.

“The foundation audit shows a discrepancy of over two million, Gloria.”

She winced, the skin around her eyes tightening.

“Two million is an exaggeration,” she said quickly.

“In reality, only one point four million was redirected.”

I slipped my hand into my cardigan pocket.

My thumb found the side button of my phone, ensuring the voice memo app was still running.

“Redirected where?” I asked.

“To Graham’s residential development project in Frisco,” she said, waving her hand dismissively.

“And to cover some short-term maintenance obligations for the family estate.”