“We have the ledger, Beatrice,” he said.

“It’s right there on the crate.”

“Even if you burn this hall, the digital backups are already secure.”

Beatrice’s eyes flickered to the leather-bound book on the soot-stained crate.

She hesitated for a fraction of a second.

“You’re lying,” she said, her voice dropping its smooth tone.

“My IT people checked.”

“There are no backups.”

“You only found that ledger tonight.”

She was right.

Liam was bluffing, but his distraction gave me a moment to look around.

Directly above Chloe’s chair, a heavy iron pulley from the old stage rigging hung by a frayed rope.

The wood of the ceiling rafters was black and flaky.

If I could reach the rope line near the wall, I might be able to swing the pulley.

But the gasoline trail lay right in front of us.

“Darrow won’t help you cover this up,” I said, trying to keep her talking.

“He’s a coward.”

“He’s already talking to Detective Holt.”

Beatrice’s face twisted into a mask of pure hatred.

“Darrow does what I tell him to do because I own him,” she spat.