Harrison was the man my sister had spent nearly ten years trying to marry.

He came from old money and made his living as a corporate litigator — the kind of attorney whose name made people in boardrooms sit up straighter.

Victoria had circled him for a decade, certain she was always one step from the ring.

What she had never understood about Harrison, because she was incapable of understanding it about anyone, was that he did not enjoy being managed, and that somewhere along the way he had come to quietly suspect that my sister was one of the most skilled manipulators he had ever met.

I made an appointment under my own name. When I sat down across the wide desk in his office and slid the decrypted drive toward him, he didn’t say much at first.

He worked through the files with the flat, unhurried attention of a man who reads damning documents for a living.