He grabbed his briefcase by the handle without looking at the latch and turned on his heel to go back upstairs.

The heavy oak door at the top of the stairs clicked shut behind him.

By eight o’clock that evening, I sat in the corner booth of the twenty-four-hour diner across from the county courthouse.

Chloe sat across from me with her laptop open, watching the server files copy onto her encrypted legal drive.

“We have two hundred and fourteen separate wire transfers,” Chloe said, scrolling through the copied server logs.

“Every single transaction matches the forged insurance waiver Julian filed with the state board.”