I laid them on top of the blue folder, right over the bank statements.

“This is a complete, irrevocable waiver of all claims to Elliot’s estate and Northline Logistics,” I said.

The wind rattled the windowpane, throwing a spray of dry, hard snow against the glass.

“You sign these, and you leave Colorado tonight,” I said. “You never contact me, and you never step foot near a Northline facility again.”

“And if we don’t?” my father asked, his jaw tight.

“I unmute the phone,” I said. “And I tell Detective Harris that you hired the men who broke into the warehouse.”

“That is conspiracy to commit grand larceny,” I added. “You would be in handcuffs before you reached the highway.”

My mother looked at my father, her fingers clutching her wool collar.

“Arthur,” she whispered. “We can’t go to jail. Not for this.”

“He’s dead, Arthur,” she added, her voice rising in panic. “Elliot is dead, and she has everything.”

My father looked at the documents, then at the glowing blue screen of the muted phone on the table.