The lock turned with a dry, heavy click.

Inside the drawer were three thick manila folders labeled with different tax years, along with a black leather binder.

I pulled the binder out and laid it on the desk.

It was filled with monthly statements from a bank I did not recognize, based out of the Cayman Islands.

Most of the pages were printed emails and wire transfer confirmations.

I flipped through them, my eyes scanning the columns of numbers.

There were outgoing wires of five thousand and ten thousand dollars, all sent within the last ninety days.

Each one had a handwritten note in the margin in Ethan’s hurried, slanted script: *R. debt service.*

I took out my phone and took clear, steady photos of every single page.

My phone vibrated in my palm, startling me.

The screen showed an incoming call from Marcus, my estate attorney.

I answered it immediately, pressing the phone to my ear.

“Sophia,” Marcus said, his voice deep and reassuring. “I just saw the email you sent earlier. Are you alright?”