I pulled the car over to the curb, hazard lights blinking, and picked up the envelope.

Inside was a thin, black USB drive and three printed sheets of paper.

I unfolded the pages under the dim cabin light.

They were bank transfer receipts from an offshore account in the Cayman Islands.

The name on the sending account was Daniel’s primary holding company.

The receiving account belonged to a corporation called Alder Holdings.

“I don’t recognize Alder Holdings,” I said, squinting at the fine print.

“Look at the registered agent for Alder,” Marcus said. “It’s on the second page.”

I flipped the sheet over.

The registered agent was Arthur Carter.

My uncle.

My breath caught in my throat, the cold air from the vents suddenly feeling freezing against my skin.

Arthur was the person who had encouraged me to open the gallery in the first place, the one who had helped me secure the lease on the Wabash Avenue space.

“Daniel paid him off,” I whispered.

“Two hundred thousand dollars,” Marcus said. “Arthur defaulted on the lease guarantees on purpose so Daniel’s shell company could buy the building and evict you.”