Marco clicked on a small flashlight, sweeping the beam across the small space.

The unit was mostly empty.

In the center stood a single, heavy wooden desk.

On top of the desk sat a black plastic filing box.

“Is that it?” Luke asked.

“My aunt kept her private legal papers here,” I said.

“She didn’t trust banks.”

We stepped inside, out of the rain.

The metal door rattled behind us in the wind.

Luke walked over to the desk and blew a thin layer of dust off the plastic box.

The latch on the box was simple, not locked.

He flipped it open.

Inside were several thick manila folders, stuffed with white documents.

Luke pulled out the first folder.

Marco held the flashlight steady over his shoulder.

Luke flipped through the pages, his brows drawing together.

His face hardened.

“What is it?” I asked, stepping closer.

Luke didn’t answer immediately.

He stared at a page, his thumb pressing hard against the margin.

“These are transfer receipts,” he said, his voice flat.

“From Mercer Holdings.”

“To an offshore account in the Cayman Islands.”

He turned the page.