“Because I quit yesterday,” she said. “And because I saw what he did with his grandmother’s trust deposits before she died.”

My heart gave a slow, heavy thud.

“What did he do, Elena?” I asked.

“He moved fifty thousand dollars into a private offshore account in Belize,” she said. “He did it using a forged signature while she was in the ICU.”

I took a deep breath of the cool air coming through the car vent.

“Do you have the transaction logs?” I asked.

“I kept copies of the system audits,” she said. “I can email them to you.”

I thanked her, wrote down her email address on a scrap of paper, and hung up.

I immediately called Jerome.

“We have him,” I said.

***

Two days later, the air in the probate office was thick with the smell of old paper and floor wax.

The estate executor, Arthur Pendelton, sat behind a massive mahogany desk.

He was a dry, silver-haired man who wore wire-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

Scott sat across from him, wearing a sharp navy suit that he probably couldn’t afford.