The children were sitting in the kitchen, eating the sandwiches I had made earlier.

Johnny looked up, his brow furrowed.

“Is everything okay, Em?” he asked.

“Everything is fine, Johnny,” I lied, forcing a smile.

“Go upstairs with Paul and Lily,” I said. “Nathan and I have to make some calls.”

They obeyed, their small footsteps fading down the hallway.

Once they were gone, Nathan sat at the mahogany dining table and opened his laptop.

He did not call his mother.

Instead, he dialed a number he had memorized.

“Marcus,” Nathan said into the receiver. “I need a private forensic audit. Discreet.”

Marcus was Nathan’s most trusted advisor, a man who had worked for his father before him.

“I need you to pull the personal accounts of Thomas Carter from 1993 to 1995,” Nathan said.

“Look for wire transfers to West Virginia,” he added. “And look for any legal settlements signed by Eleanor.”

He hung up and stared at the dark screen of his computer.

For the next two days, the Greenwich estate felt like a prison.

The rain poured against the tall glass windows, turning the lawns into gray mud.