“This isn’t a game,” I said.

I reached into the inner pocket of my wet coat and pulled out a folded packet of paper.

I laid it on the glass desk, right next to my phone.

The edges of the paper were slightly damp from the rain outside.

Sloane looked down at the packet but did not reach for it.

“What is that?” she asked.

“It is a complete audit of the Vanguard Holdings accounts,” I said.

“The ones you opened using the Hartwell Civic Group’s tax identification numbers.”

The color drained from Sloane’s face, leaving her skin looking pasty under the fluorescent lights.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, though her voice lacked its earlier bite.

“Nolan manages those accounts.”

“Nolan doesn’t have the routing skills to hide three million dollars in six different offshore shell companies,” I said.

“But you do.”

“You did the wiring, Sloane.”

“My father’s forensic accountants spent the last twelve hours going through the server logs.”

“They found your personal digital signature on every single transfer.”

Sloane took a slow, deep breath, her chest rising and falling beneath her silk blouse.