Beside me, my attorney, Sarah Jenkins, stood up and adjusted her suit jacket.

“Your Honor, as the court can see, the defendant systematically removed my client’s name from the corporate registry without her knowledge or consent.”

Philip Dane stood up slowly, his hands resting flat on the mahogany table.

“Your Honor, the origin of this drive is highly questionable,” Dane said, though his voice lacked its usual sharp edge.

“We have no way of verifying how Mrs. Rourke obtained these files, or if they have been altered.”

“They were obtained through a legally binding trial subpoena, Mr. Dane,” Sarah replied, holding up a certified blue-backed paper.

I looked over at the gallery where Sloane Pierce sat in the third row.

She was wearing a cream-colored trench coat, her fingers twisting her designer purse strap until her knuckles turned white.

Two nights ago, Sloane had cornered me in the dimly lit lobby of the corporate office.

“I have the master drive, Cassandra,” Sloane had whispered, her eyes darting to the security guards by the door.

“Give me two million dollars from the joint account, and I will hand it to you before the hearing begins.”