One was Grant’s bold, looping script.

The other was mine.

Except I had never seen this document before tonight.

Grant glanced over his shoulder, his eyes widening slightly before he recovered his professional grin.

“This is a standard filing from our legal department, Vivian,” Grant said.

His microphone caught the dry, raspy scrape of his throat.

“A routine quitclaim deed to consolidate the assets of the estate,” he told the crowd.

“We do dozens of these during a major acquisition.”

I turned to the audience, keeping my voice steady and clear.

“My signature on that document is dated October fourteenth,” I said into my microphone.

“On October fourteenth, I was in Zurich attending my mother’s medical consultation.”

“My passport was stamped at customs in Switzerland at ten in the morning.”

“This document was notarized in Los Angeles County at noon on that exact same day.”

A murmur rippled through the front tables where our primary investors sat.

Lila shifted her weight, her cream-colored heels scraping against the stage floor.

Grant stepped closer to me, his breath smelling of the expensive Cabernet he had been drinking at table one.