A frightened four-year-old had picked up the shiny thing the way children do. It meant nothing about him and everything about the men who’d issued it.

“The supervisor was carrying a card coded to a trust I haven’t had access to since I was seven years old. That’s not a hotel matter anymore either.”

Victor looked at me for a long moment. “The Martin Family Trust holds the redevelopment vehicle.”

“I know.”

“You told me your father’s partners wound that trust down after he died.”

“They told me that,” I said. “I was a child. I signed what I was told to sign, the same way Anna did.”