“Her toxicology report,” he said, lowering his voice.

“She has high levels of zolpidem in her system.”

“A sedative,” I said.

“A heavy dose,” he confirmed, checking his clipboard. “She shouldn’t have been able to walk, let alone drive away from that estate.”

My stomach turned.

They had been keeping her drugged to keep her quiet.

A uniform moved into my peripheral vision from the hallway.

Officer Cho, a young beat cop I recognized from my days at the state attorney’s office, stepped forward.

He held a small, clear plastic evidence bag in his hand.

“Ma’am, the nurses found this when they cut off her wet jacket,” Cho said.

He held up the bag under the harsh light.

Inside was a small, silver flash drive.

It had been taped securely to the inside lining of her coat pocket.

Engraved on the metal casing was a small, elegant crest of a falcon.

The Thorne Family Foundation.

“Do you know what’s on this, Ms. Vance?” Cho asked, his eyes scanning my face.

I stared at the silver metal.

As a retired forensic auditor, I knew exactly what that crest represented.

It represented billions of dollars, offshore tax shelters, and secrets people died to keep.

“No,” I lied smoothly. “I have no idea.”

“Since it was on her person, we have to log it eventually,” Cho said, looking down at the bag.

“But the paperwork for domestic disputes takes days to clear the precinct.”

He looked at me, a silent understanding passing between us.

“I can leave it with her personal effects for now,” he muttered. “But if it’s evidence of a crime, it needs to go through the proper channels.”

“Of course,” I said, taking the plastic bag from his hand.

The metal felt ice-cold even through the plastic.

I walked back to the waiting room window and watched the rain wash over the parking lot.