“Michael didn’t write this,” I whispered.

“How can you be sure?” Richard asked, his eyes still fixed on the blue light of the monitor.

“Michael never called me Emily when he wrote to me,” I said. “He called me Em. Always.”

I pointed at the screen, my finger hovering just an inch from the glass.

“And he never talked about his mother carrying our burdens,” I said. “He spent his whole life trying to get away from Margaret’s money.”

Richard leaned back in his leather chair, his jaw tight.

“Then Thomas Vale is using a dead man’s credentials to fabricate a paper trail,” Richard said.

“But why now?” I asked. “Michael has been gone for two years.”

“Because you left,” Richard said simply. “You took the girls and ran. Margaret needs a legal leash to pull you back, and Vale is creating one.”

He stood up and walked to the window, looking out into the dark Greenwich night.

Rain had started to fall, streaking the glass in long, silver needles.

“Tell me about the debts, Emily,” Richard said, turning back to face me. “Every single detail you can remember.”