“They forged my digital signature on the consulting invoices,” she said, a tear cutting a clean line through the makeup on her cheek. “And Grant set up an offshore account in my name last year. He told me it was a retainer hold for my agency.”

“He was building the trail,” I said, the cold realization settling in my stomach.

“Yes,” she whispered. “He and Helen planned this from the start. I heard them talking on the phone in his study on Tuesday.”

She reached back into the envelope and pulled out another stack of papers, these ones stamped with a green bank seal.

“But they didn’t realize I kept the physical files,” Vanessa said, her voice growing sharper, more desperate. “These are the manual wire authorization slips from the downtown branch.”

She laid them on the dark wood of the desk.

I leaned forward, my heart stopping as I saw the signature lines.

For transactions over five hundred thousand dollars, the private bank required a physical signature on file to authorize the release of funds.

There, written in bold black ink, was Grant’s signature.