“Ethan said he found tax documents,” I said, pacing the narrow space between the table and the sink. “Foreign bank statements in Cassandra’s desk.”

Aaron finally looked up, his eyes narrowed under his grey eyebrows.

“Cassandra’s desk?” he repeated. “Not the Colonel’s?”

“Yes,” I said. “She thinks he’s asleep downstairs.”

Aaron set his mug down with a soft, deliberate tap.

“I told you, Grace,” he said. “The Colonel is a soldier. He knows how to order a sweep and how to threaten men into silence.”

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.

“But he doesn’t know how to move five million dollars through the Cayman Islands without the IRS noticing.”

“You think Cassandra is the one managing the money?” I asked.

“She’s the trustee of the family foundation,” Aaron said. “She has been since she finished her degree at Georgetown.”

He rubbed his temple, where a faint scar ran from his hairline to his eyebrow.

“The Colonel’s hands are dirty from the field,” he said. “Cassandra’s hands are dirty from the ledger.”

I looked at my reflection in the dark kitchen window.