He did not struggle, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor as they led him away.

But the warehouse was not quiet yet.

A soft, muffled sob came from behind a stack of green plastic shipping pallets near the back wall.

Ana signaled to one of the officers, who moved toward the sound with his flashlight raised.

“Wait,” I said, recognizing the weak, trembling pitch of the cry. “That’s Gillian.”

The officer pulled back a dusty blue tarp to reveal my stepsister.

Gillian was shivering, her expensive designer jacket covered in black grease stains.

Her mascara was smeared across her pale cheeks, and she was clutching her leather purse like a shield against her chest.

“I didn’t do anything,” she sobbed, looking up at the officers. “I swear, it wasn’t my idea.”

Ana stepped forward, her leather briefcase held firmly in her left hand.

“Your name is on the fraudulent trust account, Gillian,” Ana said coldly.

“That carries a mandatory federal prison sentence for conspiracy and bank fraud.”

Gillian gasped, her face turning a sickly shade of white in the flashlight beam.