The rain lashed against the high windows of the hotel suite.

The wind howled, shaking the heavy glass.

“This is a fabrication,” my father said, though his voice lacked its previous strength.

“It is Margaret’s handwriting,” Eleanor said. “And yours, Richard.”

“Every wire transfer is documented,” she said. “The accounts in Zurich, the routing numbers, the signatures.”

Vanessa took a step toward Ethan, her face white.

She looked at the wet leather bag, then at her husband.

“Ethan,” Vanessa whispered, her voice trembling. “What does this mean?”

Ethan didn’t answer her.

He was staring at Gabriel, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and calculation.

“It means it’s over,” Gabriel said.

He took the ledger from Eleanor’s hands with a respectful nod.

“We are going to my office,” Gabriel said to me. “We need to copy these before we deliver them to the federal prosecutor.”

“You won’t make it to the street,” my father said, his voice shaking.

“Sterling’s men are downstairs,” he added.

“Not anymore,” Gabriel said, pulling out his phone.

He showed the screen to my father.