“I can help with that,” I said. “I know my father’s signatures. I know what to look for.”

“Good,” Alaric said. “Come to my study. We will end this tonight.”

We walked toward the King’s private study, leaving the shouting Rachel behind in the custody of the guards.

The study was warm, lit by a roaring fire.

A large mahogany desk sat in the center of the room, covered in maps and historical volumes.

Alaric gestured for me to sit.

I gathered the papers we had recovered from the hallway and laid them out on the dark wood.

Among the bank transfers, I found a document dated just three days before my father’s death.

It was a request to transfer eighteen million dollars to a bank in Geneva.

But the signature at the bottom was wrong.

“Look at this,” I said, pointing to the cursive script.

Alexander leaned over my shoulder, his face tense.

“What is it?” he asked.

“My father always looped his ‘W’s at the start,” I said. “This one is sharp. This is Rachel’s handwriting. She was trying to move the money before he could stop her.”