His voice sounded thin, distorted by the poor reception up here in the mountains.

“I’m here, Mr. Voss,” I said, keeping my eyes on the deputy.

The deputy held the yellowed paper under the beam of his flashlight.

“Maren, listen to me very carefully,” Mr. Voss said.

“I have been going over your father’s original trust documents from the safe deposit box.”

“The deputy just found something in Dorian’s truck,” I whispered.

“What is it?” Mr. Voss asked.

“My father’s presentation case,” I said. “His Bronze Star. And a piece of paper.”

The deputy turned to me, his boots crunching on the dry gravel.

“Ma’am, do you recognize this?” the deputy asked.

He held up the paper.

It was a bank draft receipt from a Swiss institution, dated three weeks after my father’s death.

The amount was for four hundred thousand dollars.

“That was my father’s money,” I said into the phone.

“Maren, stay on the line,” Mr. Voss said.

Dorian struggled against the deputy’s grip, his face twisting in the flashing red and blue lights.

“She’s lying!” Dorian yelled. “That box belongs to my wife!”