The grand ballroom of the Whitmore Hotel smelled of expensive white lilies and damp wool.

Outside, a late November sleet beat against the tall glass windows, blurring the Chicago skyline.

Inside, three hundred guests laughed and clinked champagne flutes.

I adjusted the lace runner on the memory table near the double doors.

As the maid of honor and the family accountant, I had spent the last six months balancing the budget for this wedding.

My younger sister Vanessa wanted nothing less than perfection.

I reached into the wooden crate of decorations to find the final framed photograph of our family.

My fingers brushed against something heavy and cold.

It was a silver frame, but it did not contain a photo of our parents.

Inside the glass was a printout of a wire transfer confirmation.

I stared at the paper, my breath catching in my throat.

The document showed a transfer of four point six million dollars from the Bennett Foundation to a private account in the Cayman Islands.

At the bottom of the page, my authorization signature was printed in clear, black ink.

It was my name, but I had never seen this document in my life.

My signature had been lifted, smoothed, and perfectly forged.

“Claire, what are you doing over here?”

I jumped, nearly dropping the frame.

My father, Richard, stood behind me, his tuxedo immaculate, his eyes cold.

“Just finishing the table, Dad,” I said, sliding the frame face down beneath a stack of linen napkins.

“Hurry up,” he said, adjusting his cufflinks. “The ceremony starts in twenty minutes.”

He walked away toward the bar without waiting for my reply.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I grabbed the frame and slipped into the dim service hallway behind the catering kitchen.

I needed a quiet place to think, to breathe, to figure out who had done this.

Before I could turn the corner toward the elevators, I heard whispered voices from the alcove.

I froze against the floral wallpaper.

“Is it done?” Vanessa asked, her voice sharp and devoid of her usual bridal sweetness.

“The envelope is exactly where the police will find it,” Ethan replied.