“It is a fact,” Marcus said, stepping forward from the sideboard.

He placed a folder in front of Arthur.

“These are the original authorization slips from the bank,” Marcus said. “The signatures do not match Margaret’s handwriting.”

Helen’s face remained perfectly still, a mask of aristocratic indifference.

“Margaret was very ill in her final days,” Helen said. “Her hand was shaky. We all know that.”

“She didn’t sign these, Helen,” I said, looking her dead in the eye. “And you know it.”

Grant stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floorboards.

“This is a witch hunt,” Grant said, his face flushing red. “Emma is using her personal grief to destroy this foundation’s reputation.”

“Sit down, Grant,” Arthur said, his voice flat and commanding.

Grant hesitated, then slowly sank back into his chair.

I reached into my bag and pulled out my phone.

Under the table, I typed a quick message to Dina.

*Are you still at the front desk?*

A second later, the phone vibrated in my palm.

*Yes. Do you need something?*

I typed back as Arthur and Marcus argued about the bank slips.