I took it from her, feeling the unexpected weight of the bundle.

My hands shook slightly as I peeled back the stiff, dusty wax paper.

Inside was a thick, black leather-bound journal with a brass clasp.

I recognized it instantly.

It was the notebook Claire used to carry with her everywhere during her last year.

“Is that it?” Pierce asked, shining his flashlight onto the leather cover.

“Yes,” I said. “This was Claire’s private log.”

I unhooked the brass clasp, the metal cold against my fingertips.

The pages inside were filled with Claire’s neat, elegant handwriting in blue ink.

I flipped past the early entries, which detailed daily schedules and notes about the girls’ school.

Then, the tone of the writing changed.

The entries became shorter, the handwriting tighter and more hurried.

I stopped on a page dated three weeks before her death.

“Look at this,” I said, tilting the page toward Pierce’s flashlight.

He leaned in, his face hardening as he read the words.

“Sterling has been routing funds through the offshore shell accounts,” I read aloud.

My voice sounded hollow in the cold basement.