It was Arthur Voss, Harrison’s father, whose funeral we had attended five years ago.

His face was lined with deep creases, and his gray hair was cut short and practical.

“Patricia took everything I had to build that fake empire,” Arthur said, his voice raspy and thin.

He reached into his heavy wool coat and pulled out a thick, leather-bound ledger.

“This is the real paper trail,” he said, handing it to Elena.

Elena took it, her fingers brushing the worn leather as she flipped it open.

“How are you alive?” I asked, my voice shaking in the damp air of the garage.

“She paid a coroner in Chicago to sign a fake certificate,” Arthur said simply.

“She told me if I ever came back, she’d ruin Harrison and make sure I spent the rest of my life in a federal penitentiary.”

He looked toward the concrete exit ramp.

“But when I saw what she was doing to you, Claire, I couldn’t stay hidden any longer.”

“We need to get to the federal courthouse,” Elena said, her eyes scanning the handwritten columns of figures.