I stared at the black plastic console on Naomi’s desk.

Outside, the Seattle rain beat a steady, relentless rhythm against the thick glass of the high-rise window.

“Conrad,” I said, keeping my voice flat and even.

“You have always been a quiet girl, Amelia,” Conrad said, his voice coming through the speaker with chilling clarity. “But silence is only valuable when it is kept.”

Grant froze, his pen hovering just millimeters above the signature line of the final page.

A single drop of sweat rolled down his temple, tracing the line of his jaw.

“Dad,” Grant said, his voice cracking slightly.

There was a brief pause on the line.

“Grant,” Conrad said, and I could hear the disappointment in his tone, heavy and cold. “I hoped you would have more sense than to sit in a room with a cheap divorce lawyer and hand over thirty years of family history.”

“It’s not history, Conrad,” Naomi said, stepping closer to the desk. “It’s federal wire fraud, tax evasion, and racketeering.”

Conrad let out a soft, dry laugh.