I turned my head.

Dr. Marren stood in the doorway, holding a small leather case.

His silver hair was combed back, and his eyes looked cold under the dim light of the booth.

“Vivian,” he said softly. “You shouldn’t be up here.”

“Get out, Dr. Marren,” I said.

My hand remained poised over the enter key.

“Harrison is concerned about your state of mind,” Marren said, stepping into the small room.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small glass vial.

“We need to get you back to the clinic where you can rest safely.”

“I am not going back to your clinic,” I said.

I pressed the red button.

The projector hummed louder, a deep mechanical whine that vibrated through the floorboards.

Down on the main stage, the giant screen flickered.

The blue light of the projector washed over Harrison’s face.

The image of my mother’s forged signature appeared behind him, thirty feet tall.

Beside it, the offshore banking records flashed in bright, clear rows of numbers.

The murmur in the ballroom stopped instantly.