He gestured toward the double doors.

“Please.”

We walked out of the warm, brightly lit ballroom into the sterile, fluorescent corridor of the administrative wing.

The smell of floor wax and old paper replaced the scent of perfume and prime rib.

Rain lashed against the high windows at the end of the hallway.

Michael was already there, sitting on a wooden bench with his head in his hands.

His dress cap sat on the seat beside him.

Agent Vance opened the door to a small briefing room.

Inside was a metal table, four chairs, and a gray filing cabinet.

On the table sat a black leather briefcase, unlocked.

“Sit down, Helen,” Drummond said, using her first name without any military formality.

Helen sat, her purse clutched tightly in her lap like a shield.

I stood near the door, my back straight, keeping my distance.

“We have the logs from the Richmond vault,” Agent Vance said, opening the briefcase.

He pulled out a stack of notarized documents and laid them on the table.

“The power of attorney you used to access the Rogers family trust was executed three years ago.”