I typed in the numerical string: *337424118274*.

The screen flashed red. *Access Denied.*

I tried another sequence from her ledger—the date of her husband’s death.

*08121999*.

*Access Denied.*

I leaned back in the plastic chair, rubbing my temples.

“Is everything alright?” Vance asked from the door.

“Just trying to organize some financial records,” I said.

I looked back at the screen.

What would Victoria use for the most sensitive file in her possession?

I thought of Adelaide.

During the confrontation at the estate, Adelaide had dropped a hint.

She had mentioned the “error of ninety-six.”

Ninety-six. 1996.

The year Tyler was born.

I typed in Tyler’s exact birthdate followed by the initials of the clinic in Switzerland where he was born.

*04141996CSG*.

The hard drive whirred, a high-pitched spin that vibrated through the metal table.

The dialogue box vanished.

A list of subfolders appeared on the screen.

The first one was titled *Coroner Reports – Non-Disclosed.*

My breath hitched in my throat.

The real Tyler was supposed to be alive, hidden away in a sanitarium, according to the official family narrative.

Why would there be a coroner’s report?