We left the door cracked open so the light from the hallway would drift in.

We walked down to the first-floor study, where Marco was waiting.

The room was filled with the glow of multiple computer screens.

Marco’s analysts were already hard at work, lines of financial data scrolling across their monitors.

“What do we have?” Ryker asked, pouring himself a glass of whiskey.

He did not drink it, just held the heavy glass in his hand, staring at the screens.

“Edward Vance’s logistics company went bankrupt three weeks ago,” Marco said.

“He owed upwards of ten million dollars to a private lending syndicate in London.”

“The kind of people who don’t sue you,” I added, leaning against the mahogany desk.

“Exactly,” Marco said. “They take assets. Or lives.”

“And Eleanor?” Ryker asked.

“She was trying to buy her way out,” Marco said, tapping a key.

A document appeared on the main screen, showing a list of transfers.

“She transferred three offshore accounts into her personal name yesterday morning.”

“But she left the children behind,” Ryker murmured.

“Because they were dead weight,” I said, a bitter taste in my mouth.