“How, Mom? How am I supposed to save him from federal charges?”

“Tell them you authorized it,” she said quickly, the words tumbling over one another. “Tell them you gave him permission to open those accounts. Tell them you signed the papers.”

I stared at her, the sheer absurdity of the request leaving me momentarily speechless.

“You want me to lie to federal investigators?” I asked.

“You don’t understand,” she said, grabbing my wet hand and squeezing it. “You don’t have a record. If you say you did it, or that it was a joint business venture that went wrong, they will drop the charges against him. You’ll just get probation. A slap on the wrist.”

My father stood by the grandfather clock, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed on me with a cold, calculating stare.

“It is the only logical path,” he said, his voice flat. “We can hire the best defense team for you. We will pay the fines. But Brandon’s reputation cannot survive a conviction. My bank cannot survive that association.”