“Grant is currently sitting in a conference room in Midtown with his defense attorney,” I said.

“And Philip?” she asked, her voice desperate. “Philip was supposed to meet with the auditors.”

Just then, my phone vibrated in my palm again.

It was an email alert from a private address I recognized instantly.

The sender was Philip Mercer.

The subject line was blank, but there was an encrypted file attachment labeled *MHG_Internal_2023_Secure*.

I glanced at the preview text of the message.

*Nora, please,* the email read. *I had no part in Grant’s personal books. This is everything he kept on the offshore accounts. Keep me out of the indictment.*

I stared at the screen, watching the file download bar slowly fill.

Margaret saw the change in my expression and took a step toward me.

“What is it?” she demanded, her voice shrill. “Nora, what is that?”

Before I could answer, headlights swept across the wet glass of the front door, casting long, moving shadows across the walls.

The door swung open, and Philip Mercer stood on the threshold.