My phone in my pocket began to ring again.

The screen reflected the harsh white light from behind us.

I reached into my coat and pressed the volume button on the side of my phone to silence the ringer.

The screen still glowed with Julian’s name.

“Don’t look back,” Nora whispered, her fingers flying across the keyboard.

“Is it Julian?” I asked, my voice barely a breath.

“The SUV is still idling,” she said.

She double-clicked a file labeled *TFF_Inflow_2023*.

A massive spreadsheet populated the screen, rows of numbers cascading down in green and red.

My eyes trained on the columns, my years of forensic auditing instantly taking over.

“These are cash deposits,” I said, pointing at the screen.

“Look at the amounts,” Nora said.

Every single deposit was just under ten thousand dollars.

“Structuring,” I murmured. “They’re avoiding the federal reporting threshold.”

“And look where they go next,” she said.

She tracked a transaction of nine thousand eight hundred dollars.

It moved from a local bank in upstate New York to a shell company called Alabaster Holdings in Grand Cayman.