“Or the trust accounts you thought you controlled.”

Graham’s phone began to vibrate in his pocket.

The buzzing sound was sharp and persistent against his thigh.

He didn’t answer it.

Instead, he kept his eyes locked on the screen, staring at the name of the entity that had just taken his life’s work.

“Bluebell Lane,” Graham whispered again, as if trying to force the words to make sense.

“It’s a shell,” Graham said. “It’s an anonymous Delaware registration.”

“It’s not anonymous to the people who hold the paper,” I said.

I reached into my clutch and pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook.

Inside were the original incorporation papers of Bluebell Lane Capital.

I didn’t open it yet.

I just held it in my hand, feeling the textured leather under my thumb.

Elliot watched the notebook.

“Arden,” Elliot said, his voice pleading now. “Please.”

“Tell me who we are dealing with.”

I looked at him, then at my husband, and finally at Bianca.

The silence in the room was absolute.

Nobody moved.

Nobody breathed.

The headlights outside died, and the sound of a car door closing echoed through the wet night.