I traced the blurred ink edges of the forged stamp under the yellow lamp, matching the tiny broken notch on the letter V to the paper in my pocket.

By ten past ten the next morning, the printouts were spread flat across Chloe Park’s desk on Market Street.

Chloe had been my senior auditing supervisor three years earlier, before I took the contract with the Vance Family Charitable Trust, and her office still smelled of old paper and lukewarm black coffee.

She tapped her fountain pen three times on a yellow legal pad before looking up at me.

“These six wire transfers match the tax shelter exemption codes,” Chloe said, turning a ledger sheet toward the light from the window.