“We can help you control the narrative,” Grace said, stepping closer to the desk. “But only if we have an agreement.”

“What do you want, Monroe?” Margaret asked.

“A complete restructuring of the family trust,” Grace said.

“Adrian is going to prison,” I added. “He cannot hold any assets, and he cannot have custody of my daughter.”

Margaret looked at the papers on her desk, then back at us.

“We will discuss the terms when the dust settles,” Margaret said.

“No,” Grace said firmly. “We discuss them now, before the federal agents make their first press release.”

Before Margaret could answer, the phone on her desk began to ring.

At the exact same moment, my own phone lit up in my hand.

It was an alert from a local news outlet, followed by three rapid text messages from an unknown number.

My thumb swiped the screen, my breath catching in my throat as the first image loaded.

The screen showed a photograph of Adrian.

He was walking down the steps of a federal building in lower Manhattan, his head ducked, his hands obscured by the sleeves of his dark gray suit.