She simply smiled, a thin, sharp line that showed too many teeth.

“She knows, Cole,” Vanessa said.

Cole closed the heavy door behind him.

The latch clicked into place with a definitive, metallic sound that echoed off the painted cinderblock walls.

“Knows what?” he asked, stepping further into the room.

“About her father,” Vanessa said.

“About the foundation he laid for the black accounts.”

Cole stopped.

He looked at me, his gaze shifting from cold indifference to something more calculating.

“Is that true, Eleanor?” he asked.

“You knew my father didn’t sign those papers willingly,” I said, my voice tight.

“He tried to stop you.”

“He was a pragmatist,” Cole said, stepping closer.

The scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the damp, concrete smell of the cell block.

“Your father knew that intelligence work requires dirty hands.”

“He realized his mistake,” I said.

“By then, it was too late,” Cole replied.

He pulled a leather-bound notebook from his inside pocket.

He tapped it against his palm.

“The signatures are quite clear,” he said.

“They are on the original authorizations from 2018.”