*The local precinct dispatch has a unit three blocks away,* the text read. *They are entering through the lobby now.*

I looked back through the glass doors of the study.

Patricia was trying to pry Harrison’s fingers off the black folder.

“Let go, Harrison,” she hissed, her voice losing its composure. “If Claire’s attorney gets those bank transfer statements, the federal regulators will be involved by morning.”

“Good,” Harrison said, though his voice shook. “Maybe they should be.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Patricia said. “Think of the family name.”

“The family name is a lie,” Harrison said.

He pulled the folder away with a jerk, tearing one of the paper dividers.

A stack of bank statements fluttered to the Persian rug.

Patricia immediately dropped to her knees, her manicured hands clawing at the papers.

She didn’t look like a matriarch anymore; she looked like a thief in a high-end suit.

“Help me pick these up,” she ordered, not looking at him. “We need to burn the ledger sheets from the Swedish account.”

“The Swedish account?” Harrison asked. “What Swedish account?”