Julian flipped to the signature page at the back of the packet, then paused.

He pulled out a small penlight from his pocket and examined the margin of the previous page.

“Evelyn, look at this registration number,” he murmured.

He pointed to a small, faint code printed in the lower left corner.

“This matches a private trust in Delaware,” Julian said.

“A trust Bennett set up six months ago, right around the time your mother fell ill.”

My breath caught in my throat.

During those months, I was at her bedside in Boston, completely removed from the business.

“What did he do, Julian?” I asked.

Julian looked up, his expression unusually grim.

“I think he has been moving major assets out of your joint accounts,” Julian said.

“And he needed your signature to do it.”

He turned the page, his thumb tracing a line of text about external art liquidations.

“Let me run a search on the international registry tonight,” Julian said.

My phone buzzed on the table between us, the screen lighting up.

It was a text message from Marta, my housekeeper at our Park Avenue penthouse.