“But you don’t have real power, Josephine!” My mother stepped forward, groping for control of a room that had left her behind.

“You’re only his wife.

You still work a dead-end desk job.

Mr.

Prescott, you must understand, she has always been a liar, she—”

The doors at the back of the room opened for a third time.

It was not security this time.

Three men and two women came through them at a fast, focused walk — not bodyguards but executives, in sharp business dress, carrying encrypted tablets and thick dossiers bound in red bands.