My mind raced with the details of the metadata.

October twelfth.

I had been standing in the gallery in Paris, wearing a blue silk dress Bennett had bought for me.

I had believed he was in New York managing a crisis at the hotel.

In reality, he was sitting in his study in Greenwich, typing my name into a forged contract.

He was signing away my grandfather’s collection.

He was selling my life’s work to fund his mistress’s lifestyle.

The anger was not hot anymore.

It was cold, sharp, and clear.

“Julian,” I said, looking out the wet window.

“Yes, Evelyn?”

“Send the files to Henry Blum now.”

“From the car?” Julian asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Let him receive them while Bennett and Celeste are arguing in that townhouse.”

“Let the hammer fall while they are in the same room.”

Julian opened his laptop on his knees.

He connected to his mobile hotspot.

With a few clicks, he attached the encrypted metadata report and the scanned pages of Celeste’s ledger.

He addressed the email to Henry Blum’s private address.