“My firm didn’t do this,” Vance said. “This was the old Whitaker group.”

“You bought their liabilities when you bought their assets,” I said. “If this goes to a federal judge, your current license will be reviewed.”

Vance stared at me for a long moment, his fingers tapping a rhythm on his desk.

He stood up without a word and walked to a row of gray filing cabinets in the corner.

He unlocked the bottom drawer and pulled out a thick, dusty manila folder.

He dropped it onto the desk in front of me.

“We digitized these last year,” Vance said. “But I kept the paper copies of the high-profile clients.”

I reached out and opened the folder.

The first page was a contract signed by Vivian Hartwell.

The terms were explicit.

She had authorized a monthly retainer of fifteen thousand dollars to “identify, train, and position” an operative.

The next page was a resume for a woman named Sarah Jenkins.

Attached to the resume was a photocopy of a driver’s license.

The face in the photograph was Sloane Whitaker.