I typed the sequence of letters and numbers I had copied from the vanity mirror in Victoria’s guest room.

The drive whirred.

A progress bar filled with green light, and the folder popped open.

Inside were medical scans and an autopsy report from a private Swiss forensic pathologist.

“The cause of death is listed as acute toxicity,” I said, reading the translated text aloud.

“But look at the chemical compound.”

“It was a lethal dose of phenobarbital.”

“That is the exact medication Victoria was prescribed for her chronic insomnia,” I said.

My stomach churned as the realization settled in.

“She didn’t just cover up an accidental death,” I whispered.

“She poisoned her own son because he was going to expose her financial fraud.”

“And then she hired Julian to step into his shoes so no one would ever question where the money went.”

Harris rubbed his jaw, his eyes wide.

The stubble on his chin made a scratching sound in the quiet room.

“If Tyler Callahan died of suspicious poisoning, that’s a homicide investigation,” he said.

“But it happened in Switzerland five years ago.”