For a woman named Sarah Vance, who I remembered giving me candy when I was seven, the method was listed as *Accidental Drowning*.

Her pension of eighty thousand dollars had been transferred to a Bellamy shell company the very next day.

For another cook, the method was listed as *House Fire*.

“These weren’t accidents,” Charles said, his face hardening in the dim light of the screen.

“They were murders,” I said, the word tasting like copper in my mouth.

“They were executions to protect the money,” Charles corrected quietly. “Julian Bellamy embezzled millions from the staff retirement funds over three decades.”

“And when anyone got close to the truth, they fabricated their deaths,” Marcus added.

“My father found the discrepancy,” I said, remembering the late nights he spent hunched over ledger books at our kitchen table.

“He did,” Charles said. “He told me he had found a massive hole in the accounts just before I had my accident.”

“But they didn’t kill him,” I said, my eyes searching the screen. “There is no accident report for him.”

Marcus scrolled back to the *Active_Resolutions_Archive*.