The house felt larger now, and completely empty.

“We should go,” I told my mother, touching her shoulder.

She looked around the library, at the oil paintings of Gregory’s ancestors and the heavy leather chairs.

“I am never coming back here,” she said.

Three weeks later, the rain in Sacramento was cold and persistent.

The federal courthouse was a grey concrete tower that smelled of damp wool and industrial floor wax.

I sat at the wooden table in Courtroom 4B next to my attorney.

The judge, a woman with graying hair and sharp spectacles, looked over the thick stack of petitions in front of her.

“The evidence of systemic fraud within the Richards Group is overwhelming,” the judge said.

The court-appointed receiver stood at the podium to present the liquidation plan.

“We have frozen all domestic accounts associated with Gregory Richards and his subsidiaries,” the receiver stated.

“What about the offshore holdings?” the judge asked.

“The Swiss authorities have agreed to cooperate under the treaty,” the receiver replied.

“The assets will be fully liquidated to pay the restitution fines.”

I looked back at the gallery.