The date on the video was the very night my mother died.

The play button began to pulse in the center of the screen.

I tapped the power button, darkening the screen before the investigator could see my hand shaking.

The video would have to wait.

“I’ll come with you,” I said, looking up at the investigator.

Daniel stepped in beside me as we walked out of the ballroom.

The air in the hallway was cold, carrying the faint scent of old floor wax and rain from the open terrace.

Behind us, the murmurs of the crowd faded into the heavy drapes of the main hall.

By the next morning, the state police and the forensic team had secured the warrants.

Rachel met us at the precinct first, her leather briefcase heavy against her knee.

“The judge signed off on both locations,” Rachel said.

“Sloane’s apartment on Tenth, and the Whitmore Development headquarters.”

I rode with Daniel in his sedan, watching the grey morning fog cling to the glass buildings downtown.

We parked half a block from Sloane’s brick high-rise.