“I have Whitmore’s old financial records,” she said. “They are locked in his old desk in the palace archive.”

“Why would he leave them there?” I asked.

“He thinks he is untouchable,” she said. “He kept paper ledgers of his offshore transactions from that year.”

“I need to see those records,” I said.

“You cannot just walk in there,” Rachel said. “The archive is restricted to high-ranking staff.”

“I have the King’s authority right now,” I said.

I turned toward the chapel entrance, my mind racing with the implications.

If Whitmore had murdered my father, I would ensure he faced justice.

But something about Rachel’s story still felt incomplete.

Whitmore was powerful, but he was an outsider to our family.

He could not have executed the transfer of the Virginia trust without inside help from someone who knew our father’s daily habits.

I walked back toward the guards at the door.

“Keep her here,” I told them. “Do not let anyone in or out.”

“Yes, Commander,” the senior guard replied, offering a stiff nod.

I walked out of the chapel and back into the cold night air.