The tool intercepted the redirect URL, tracing the routing numbers behind the digital wallet.

My thumb hovered over the screen.

I clicked the raw data view.

The string of numbers that appeared did not belong to the Hart Family Foundation’s public charity account.

It bypassed the estate’s clearinghouse entirely.

The destination routing number ended in four-nine-two-zero.

My breath caught in my throat.

That was the private account of Vanguard Holdings, the shell company Graham had registered in Delaware three months ago.

They were routing the memorial donations straight into his personal ledger.

Every dollar raised tonight would go toward covering the deficit from his failed suburban development project.

I looked up at Graham.

He was watching me, his expression calm and expectant.

“Is there a problem, Claire?” he asked.

“No,” I said, my voice steady despite the heat rising in my chest. “It works very quickly.”

“Excellent,” Sloane said, pulling the tablet back. “We will begin the slide presentation in five minutes.”

She turned and walked toward the microphone at the front of the ballroom.

Graham followed her, stopping to shake hands with another donor on the way.

I stepped back into the shadow of a large marble pillar.

Daniel Reyes materialized from the crowd, his dark suit damp from the rain outside.

His face was pale under the gallery lights.

“Did you scan it?” Daniel whispered.

I held out my phone so he could see the routing number on the screen.

“It’s the Delaware account,” I said.

Daniel’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the raw data.

“He’s using the gala to launder the missing foundation funds in plain sight,” Daniel said.

He reached for my hand, his fingers touching my wrist.

“Don’t touch the device again, Claire. If you refresh that session, their server will log your IP address and they’ll know we’re watching.”

I looked across the room.