She looked tired, dark circles shadowing her eyes, but her hands were steady as she locked the door behind her.

We spread our files across the plastic laminate table in the corner of the motel room.

Clara fell into a light, fitful sleep on the bed, her breathing shallow.

For the next six hours, Nora and I worked in near silence.

The only sounds were the clicking of keys and the hum of the old heating unit.

I opened the spreadsheets of Thorne Logistics on my laptop.

The numbers didn’t lie.

I traced the flow of money from shell companies in Delaware to offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands.

Eleanor Thorne had been funneling millions into local political campaigns and private security firms.

Julian had used those same accounts to pay off the medical staff who treated Clara after her “accidents.”

It was a paper trail of absolute control.

“This is a federal case,” I said, pointing to a wire transfer receipt on the screen.

“Interstate wire fraud,” Nora agreed, leaning in. “And money laundering through state-chartered banks.”

“We bypass the local cops completely,” I said. “We have to.”