“We need to secure those transaction records before they try to delete them.”

“They can’t,” I said. “The Swiss bank already flagged the transfers as suspicious.”

The doors opened to the bustling lobby, and we walked out into the cold New York air.

Three days later, the autumn wind was cold enough to frost the windows of my sedan.

We pulled up the long, winding driveway of Darrow House.

The ancient oaks lining the path were bare, their branches reaching up like gray fingers against the white sky.

The gravel crunched beneath the tires, a sound I had heard thousands of times during my marriage.

But today, two sheriff’s deputies sat in an unmarked SUV parked near the limestone fountain.

Lena got out first, carrying a thick manila folder bearing the gold seal of the state court.

I followed her, wrapping my wool coat tightly around my shoulders to block the wind.

The front door of Darrow House was already open.

A large moving crate sat on the stone porch, empty and waiting.

Inside, the grand foyer felt hollow, the marble floors echoing our footsteps.