The glow of the spreadsheet illuminated her face, casting sharp shadows under her cheekbones.

“I have the ledger, Helen,” I said. “The entire transaction history from the offshore shell companies.”

She didn’t flinch.

She walked closer, her heels clicking on the pine floor, and looked down at the screen.

“A collection of numbers,” she said. “Nothing more.”

“These numbers match the exact deficits in the Whitaker foundation’s primary accounts,” I said. “They are signed off by Grant’s digital key, but the IP addresses trace back to your personal residence.”

Helen smiled, a cold, thin line.

“Grant is the executive director,” she said. “He makes the decisions.”

“You forced him to do it,” I said, rising from my chair to stand level with her. “He’s weak, and you’ve always controlled him.”

She let out a dry, soft laugh that sounded like paper rubbing together.

“Grant wanted the lifestyle he thought he deserved,” she said. “But he lacks the stomach for the actual work.”

“And what work is that, Helen? Embezzlement?”

“Preservation,” she said sharply, her tone losing its mock warmth. “The Caldwell family holdings were facing a ruinous margin call on the northern district development.”