It wasn’t just anger.

It was the look of a man who had reached the end of his rope and had nothing left to lose.

Back inside the house, the curtains of the master bedroom twitched.

My father stood by the window, watching the tail lights of Wyatt’s car disappear around the corner.

He turned to my mother, who was still weeping on the edge of the bed.

“We need to get the files,” my father said, his voice dropping to a low, urgent whisper.

“What files?” she asked, wiping her nose with a tissue.

“The backup drives,” he said, walking to the closet. “And the physical ledgers from the safe downstairs.”

“Richard, she has the bank records already,” my mother said.

“She doesn’t have the paper trail for the offshore accounts,” he snapped, pulling a heavy duffel bag from the top shelf. “If the police get their hands on those, we are going to federal prison.”

He looked at her, his eyes wild and desperate in the dim bedroom light.

“We have to get rid of all of it,” he muttered.