But secretarial schools did not teach you how to launder six million dollars through Panamanian shell companies, or which judges preferred cash in manila envelopes over bank transfers.

“Why are you calling me, Julian?” I asked.

“I want to make an offer,” he said.

“I am retired,” I said.

“You are hiding in a wet little town on the coast,” Julian said. “I can smell the salt through the receiver.”

I looked down at the floorboards, wondering if he really knew where I was, or if he was just guessing.

“I like the rain,” I said.

“Arthur has hired trackers,” Julian said, his voice dropping an octave. “The expensive ones from Chicago.”

“Let them look,” I said.

“They are looking for Clara Hughes,” Julian said. “They are looking for her credit cards, her social security number, her email address.”

“They won’t find them,” I said.

I had spent my final three weeks at the estate rewriting the server protocols.

Every document that bore my name had been replaced with a blank file, and the backup tapes had been run through a demagnetizer.