I drove north on Interstate 95, the highway empty and dark under a heavy gray sky.

The heater in my sedan blew dry, dusty air into my face.

My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white.

I arrived in South Boston just as the sky was turning the color of wet asphalt.

The building on D Street was a renovated brick warehouse with a brass directory in the lobby.

Thomas Vance was waiting for me on the third floor.

He was a thick-necked man with graying hair and a faded blue suit that strained against his shoulders.

His office smelled of stale coffee and old carpet.

“Mrs. Hartwell,” he said, nodding toward a leather chair. “Lydia said you were motivated.”

“I need the client file for Vivian Hartwell from nine years ago,” I said, sitting down.

“That’s ancient history,” Vance said, leaning back in his chair. “And highly confidential.”

“It’s fraud,” I said. “Your predecessor firm helped facilitate a corporate espionage scheme against Vale House.”

I placed the photocopy of the invoice on his desk.

He looked down at it, his face remaining neutral.