“Do you need me there?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Stay where you are.”

I hung up and stood in the damp air outside the courthouse.

The rain was turning into a cold drizzle that stuck to my eyelashes.

I walked back inside the lobby to get out of the wind.

The marble floors reflected the harsh fluorescent lights from the high ceiling.

Rachel was waiting near the security desk, holding two paper cups of coffee.

She handed one to me, her fingers brushing against my compression glove.

“What did the message say?” she asked.

“Arthur Pendelton signed the Cayman application,” I said.

Rachel stared at me, her coffee cup stopping halfway to her mouth.

“The man who spoke at your father’s funeral?” she asked.

“The same man,” I said.

“He was helping Ethan siphon the trust from the very beginning,” I added.

“They thought you would never look,” Rachel said.

“They thought the oil would keep me quiet,” I said.

I took a sip of the hot coffee, letting the heat warm my throat.

“How are your hands today?” Rachel asked.

“They itch,” I said.