My voice sounded steadier than I felt.

“It is my leverage,” I said.

“It is our survival,” Arthur corrected, his voice rising. “Without those accounts, the Blackwells will discard you the moment they find a way to clear their names.”

I looked down at the paper.

The ink was dark, written in the precise, cramped hand of a man who spent his life hiding other people’s money.

I looked at the Swiss routing code.

*CH93-0485-2201-9941.*

I repeated it again in my mind.

Then the Cayman transit number.

*KY11-9023-4481-0052.*

The numbers sat in my head like columns on a balance sheet.

I had spent years analyzing numbers for my father’s clients.

I knew how to hold a sequence in my memory under pressure.

“The book is nothing without the keys, Dad,” I said.

Arthur frowned, his eyes narrowing as he tried to read my face.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

I pulled my hand out of my pocket.

The brass lighter caught the glare of the ceiling lights.

Elias took half a step forward, his hand dropping toward his utility belt.

“Don’t,” I told Elias.