“I saw the remote connection alert,” Rachel said, her breath catching in her throat. “You’re in the files.”

“I saw the photograph, Rachel,” I said. “I saw the Mercedes.”

A long, suffocating silence stretched over the line.

Through the tall leaded windows of the study, the grey European rain lashed against the glass.

“You don’t know what you’re looking at,” she whispered.

“I am looking at a crime scene,” I said. “And I am looking at your signature on a wire transfer dated three days before Dad died.”

“He was going to kill her, Emily,” Rachel sobbed.

The sound of her crying was muffled, as if she had her hand pressed over her mouth in her bridal suite.

“Who?” I demanded.

“Arthur Whitmore,” she said.

The name hung in the damp air of the room like a physical weight.

I knew the name.

Whitmore was a high-profile investment broker with ties to several European holdings, a man who often appeared in the social pages alongside the royal family.

“What did Whitmore do?” I asked, my voice dropping to a whisper.