“We present it to him tomorrow morning at the office,” Jonathan said. “Before the board meeting.”

“I can prepare the formal demand letters tonight,” Benjamin said.

“Do it,” Jonathan said. “But keep the original files in a secure location.”

“They are already on an encrypted server,” Benjamin said, picking up his briefcase. “Only I have the access key.”

“Thank you, Benjamin,” Jonathan said, reaching out to shake his attorney’s hand.

“Be careful, Jonathan,” Benjamin said, looking at his friend. “Harrison has spies in every corner of the building.”

“I know,” Jonathan said.

Benjamin turned to me, giving me a small, reassuring nod before walking to the door.

Jonathan let him out, locking the deadbolt once more.

The silence returned to the studio, heavy and suffocating.

I walked over to the table and stared at the copy of the financial records Benjamin had left behind.

The names of the political action committees looked like a foreign language to me.

I was an art restorer; my world was made of canvas, oil paint, and patience.

This world of high-finance crime and corporate warfare felt entirely alien.