Celeste wiped her cheek with the back of her hand.

“He told me those paintings were his by right,” she said.

“He said you were holding back the growth of the company.”

“He is a thief,” I said, turning another page.

My eyes stopped on a list of digital network addresses and passwords written at the back of the book.

There was an IP address labeled *Greenwich_Private_Server_Secure*.

Beneath it was a series of directory paths and a 24-character decryption key.

“What is this?” I asked, pointing to the page.

Celeste leaned closer, her perfume sweet and suffocating in the small space.

“That is his private terminal at the house,” she said.

“He never logs onto the company network from that computer.”

“He told me it was completely offline, but he has a secure satellite connection installed there.”

“He uses it to store his personal archives.”

My mind raced back to the forged art contract that Bennett had used to claim I had sold the family collection.

The police had a digital copy of the contract, signed with my electronic signature.