“I know someone at the US Attorney’s office in Boston,” Nora said. “Assistant US Attorney Donald Vance. He’s been looking at the Thornes for months, but he lacked the internal ledgers.”

“We have them now,” I said. “Every single one.”

The next morning was grey and cold.

A thin drizzle smeared the windshield of the station wagon as we drove into the city.

We left Clara at a secure, private medical clinic that Nora’s friend managed under an assumed name.

Nora and I walked into the John Joseph Moakley United States Courthouse, our coats dripping with rain.

The security guards scanned our bags and sent us to the ninth floor.

We sat in a small, windowless conference room.

The walls were painted a sterile beige, and a long oak table occupied the center of the space.

Assistant US Attorney Donald Vance walked in, followed by two FBI agents in dark, tailored suits.

Vance was a tall man with thinning grey hair and a sharp, analytical gaze.

“Mrs. Carter,” Vance said, shaking my hand. “Nora told me you have something for us.”