Elliot Crane took a step closer to me, his polished Oxfords squeaking slightly on the damp rug near the entryway.

“A blind trust,” Elliot repeated, his voice low and calculating.

“With sole power of appointment,” I said.

“Which means I am the sole owner of Bluebell Lane.”

“And Bluebell Lane now owns thirty-eight percent of the outstanding debt of Whitaker-Crane Advisory Holdings.”

The words seemed to hang in the air, cold and heavy.

Graham’s face drained of color.

The red flush of anger that had crept up his neck earlier vanished, leaving him gray under the foyer’s chandelier.

“That’s impossible,” Graham said.

He shook his head, a tight, desperate jerk of his chin.

“The debt was restructured through a private placement in Delaware.”

“We vetted the buyers.”

“You vetted a shell company represented by a law firm in Wilmington,” I said.

“A firm that has been on my grandfather’s retainer for forty-five years.”

Maren crossed her arms, a small, cold smile touching her lips.

She stood near the archway, blocking the path back to the living room where the remaining guests were still murmuring.