“I kept this safe for five years,” Eleanor said.

She flipped the brass latch of the box.

Inside lay a stack of yellowed bank statements, a black leather notebook, and several handwritten letters.

“These are the receipts of the wire transfers to Dr. Morris’s offshore account,” Eleanor said, looking at the police officers near the door.

“The dates match the weeks leading up to Margaret’s death, and the day the death certificate was signed.”

I stepped closer, my fingers brushing the cold wood of the box.

“Why, Dad?” I asked, my voice barely audible over the hum of the hotel’s ventilation system. “Why did you do it?”

He didn’t look at me.

He looked at Ethan Cole, who was backing away toward the service exit.

“Don’t even try it, Ethan,” Gabriel said, stepping into his path.

Two federal agents, who had been waiting in the hallway, stepped into the ballroom.

Their damp trench coats smelled of the autumn rain outside.

“Richard Bennett, Ethan Cole, you are under arrest for conspiracy, wire fraud, and grand larceny,” the lead agent said.