Two unmarked police cruisers were already idling at the curb.

The investigator, a man named Miller, let us stand in the hallway while they cleared the unit.

The door to Sloane’s apartment was left wide open.

Sloane was sitting on her velvet sofa, wrapped in a trench coat, her face pale without her usual makeup.

She did not look at me when I stepped into the foyer.

“You have no right to be here,” she whispered to the floor.

“We have a signed warrant, Ms. Vance,” Miller said, bagging a silver laptop from her glass coffee table.

Daniel pointed to a small wooden desk in the corner of her living room.

“The bottom drawer,” Daniel said.

“The lock is standard, but the drive we need should be inside a fireproof pouch.”

A detective pried the drawer open with a short crowbar.

Inside, they found more than just the hard drives.

There was a thick black binder, identical to the ledger I had held in the Delaware vault.

Miller pulled it out, wearing blue latex gloves.

He flipped it open on the desk.