“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“The offshore account,” Marcus said, his voice dropping. “The digital signature that authorized the forty million dollar transfer wasn’t forged.”

“That is impossible,” Benjamin said. “I never signed those documents.”

“It was authorized with the secondary key,” Marcus said, looking up at Benjamin. “The one belonging to your chief financial officer.”

Benjamin froze. “Arthur?”

“The trace is still running,” Marcus said, his thumb tapping the screen. “But the destination account in the Caymans has a secondary contact email.”

“Whose email?” I asked, stepping closer to Marcus.

Before Marcus could answer, his tablet screen flashed red.

A loud, high-pitched alarm echoed from the hallway downstairs.

It was the smoke detector in the foyer.

The smell of burning plastic and gasoline drifted up the stairwell.

“We have to go,” Pierce shouted, grabbing Benjamin by the shoulder. “The house is on fire.”

I looked toward the hallway.

Thick, black smoke was already pouring over the threshold of the library door.

The heat was immediate, pressing against my skin.

“My daughters,” Benjamin screamed, breaking away from Pierce’s grip. “They’re in the west wing.”