She pulled a single sheet of paper from her pocket and laid it on the dining table.

“This is the log of the IP addresses used for the transfers,” she said.

“They all match your personal laptop while you were logged in at your office desk.”

Derek looked at the paper as if it were a spider.

“You bitch,” he whispered.

He did not look at Annika when he said it; his eyes were fixed on me.

“Derek,” Arthur warningly said.

“She ruined me, Dad,” Derek said, his voice cracking.

He took another step toward me, his boots heavy on the hardwood floor.

“She spent years planning this,” he said.

“I spent years surviving you,” I said.

My voice did not shake, though my heart was hammering against my ribs.

“Surviving?” Derek laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. “You had everything.”

He gestured around the room, at the custom molding, the oil paintings, the silver on the table.

“I gave you this house,” he said. “I paid for your lifestyle.”

“You bought my silence,” I said.

Eleanor shook her head, her hand going to her throat.