It slid across the polished pine and stopped near her leather purse.

“That is the paper trail showing your meetings with Vance Transport’s chief competitor,” I said.

My father stared at the folder but did not touch it.

“You sold them our shipping routes and cargo schedules,” I said. “In exchange, they promised to fund your legal challenge against Elliot’s estate.”

“We did no such thing,” my father said, though his voice lacked its usual force.

“The bank transfers are in there,” I said. “So are the emails from your personal account, signed with your own name.”

My mother reached out, her red fingernails scratching against the cardboard cover as she flipped the folder open.

The white pages gleamed under the low-hanging yellow lightbulb of the cabin.

Her eyes scanned the columns of numbers, her face losing what little color it had left.

“This is private financial data,” she whispered. “How did you get this?”

“Malcolm Sayer is a very thorough lawyer,” I said. “And Calvin Reese knows how to track digital footprints left on the warehouse servers.”

I reached back into my coat and pulled out two stapled documents.