“Amelia,” Grant’s voice came through the speaker, tight and strained.

I did not answer right away.

I looked at the rain streaking down the high glass windows of the office, blurring the grey Seattle skyline.

“I know she is with you,” Grant said, his voice rising in pitch. “And I know what you took from the house.”

“I am here, Grant,” I said.

My voice sounded colder than I felt.

“You need to bring that back,” he said, trying to sound commanding, but the tremor in his tone gave him away. “You don’t know what you’re playing with, Amelia. That metadata, those accounts—they belong to the firm.”

“They belong to a grand jury now,” I said.

Beside me, Sienna shrank back into her leather chair, her fingers twisting the strap of her purse.

Naomi leaned forward, her face expressionless, her eyes fixed on the recording software on her laptop.

“We can talk about this,” Grant said, his tone shifting to a desperate smoothness. “We can settle the divorce. I’ll give you the house in Madison Park.”

“I don’t want the house, Grant,” I said.