I copied the video files to my desktop and then transferred them to a second flash drive.
I took the forged guardianship papers that I had recovered from my mother’s desk the day before.
I placed the documents, the bank records, and both flash drives into my leather briefcase.
I snapped the brass buckles shut.

The drive to the investigator’s office took twenty minutes through the thick Miami humidity.
The air-conditioning in my car blasted cold air against my face, but my hands remained sweaty on the steering wheel.
I parked in a gravel lot behind a nondescript two-story brick building on the edge of Coral Gables.
A small, fading sign on the glass door read: *Vance Investigations*.

I walked up the narrow stairs, my leather shoes clicking on the linoleum.
An older man with graying hair and a sharp jawline opened the door before I could knock.
“Mr. Collins,” he said, stepping aside.
“Come on in.”
His office smelled of stale coffee and old paper.