From there, it joined thousands of other identical transactions.

The total at the bottom of the column made my chest tighten.

“Eighty-four million dollars,” I said.

“In the last fiscal year alone,” Nora added.

“This is a washing machine,” I said. “The Thorne Family Foundation is a front.”

“They take dirty money from offshore investors, clean it through these shell accounts, and buy up domestic real estate,” Nora said.

“They’re buying entire city blocks in the commercial district,” I said, recognizing the parcel numbers.

The driver’s side door of the black SUV opened.

A tall man in a dark trench coat stepped out into the rain.

He pulled a black umbrella open with a sharp, metallic snap.

“We need to copy this,” I said, my hand trembling as I watched him in the side mirror.

“I’m already doing it,” Nora said, inserting a black flash drive into the side of the laptop.

The transfer bar appeared.

Twenty percent.

The man in the trench coat began walking toward the emergency room entrance.

He didn’t look at us, but he was moving slowly, his eyes scanning the parked cars.