“It is,” I said. “It contains the proof of the wire fraud, the forged signatures, and the offshore transfers.”

“And the murder charge?” she asked.

“The medical records from the Swiss clinic are on page forty-two of the digital file,” I replied. “Eleanor poisoned him slowly over six months.”

A second federal vehicle pulled into the courtyard, escorting a transport van.

The back doors of the van opened, and two agents helped a woman out.

Eleanor Vance looked pale, her expensive wool coat stained with dirt from her arrest earlier that evening.

Her hair was disheveled, and her wrists were bound in heavy zip-ties.

She saw me standing under the glare of the halogen lights.

“You have no right,” Eleanor hissed, her voice shaking with rage. “Those children belong to me.”

“They belong to no one,” I said, stepping closer to her. “And they will never see you again.”

“I am their stepmother,” she spat. “The court will give them back to me. You are a criminal, Ryker.”

“The grand jury disagreed an hour ago,” the prosecutor said, holding up a manila folder. “You are being charged with first-degree murder, conspiracy, and grand larceny.”