“He staged the crash,” Rachel said. “He had Dad’s car run off the road near the pass.”

I gripped the edge of the mahogany desk until the wood bit into my palm.

“Why?”

“Because Dad found out about the offshore siphoning,” Rachel said. “Whitmore was using our family trust to launder money for his shell companies.”

“And you helped him?” I asked.

“No!” Rachel gasped. “He gave me a choice, Emily. He told me if I didn’t sign the transfer authorizations, he would release medical files showing Dad was drugged before the crash. He was going to frame me for his murder.”

I closed my eyes, visualizing the photograph I had just seen on the screen.

The man in the dark coat walking away from the crumpled silver Mercedes.

“Who was the man in the photo?” I asked.

“One of Whitmore’s security details,” Rachel said. “Whitmore sent me that photo the morning after Dad died. It was my warning.”

“And Mom?” I asked. “Where is she?”