“The old municipal transfers,” I muttered, the memory clicking into place.

“Yes,” she said. “The ones for the southern transit corridors.”

“They were supposed to be storage vaults for the import business,” I said.

“That is what the ledger said,” Isabella replied.

“But the leases weren’t for storage,” she said.

She looked down at the paper, her voice trembling.

“Father leased the rights to the deep sub-basements under the poorest wards.”

“Under Englewood,” I said. “Under Pilsen.”

“Yes,” she said. “All the places where people don’t look too closely when a child goes missing.”

“He gave Kane the legal right to build the access shafts,” she said.

“Our family owns the ground above them,” she said. “We protected them without even knowing it.”

I looked at her, my chest tightening.

“Father did that?” I asked.

“He did it for a tax shelter,” she said. “Kane set it up through a dozen shell companies.”

“The payments went into the family’s trust accounts every month,” she said.

“The same accounts that paid for my school,” she said. “The same accounts that paid for your first house.”