Her office was across Raleigh from us, and she did not waste a second of the drive on sympathy or on asking whether I was sure.

She asked what I had, and how much of it, and whether he knew I had found it.

Those were the only three questions, and they were the right ones.

She was at my house within two hours, and she did not come alone.

She brought a high-resolution scanner and a litigation assistant, and the three of us sat at my kitchen table and digitized every single item in that box — every envelope, every invitation, every pleading note in Marguerite Harrington’s own handwriting, eleven years of them, time-stamped and backed up and beyond his reach before he ever knew the box had been opened.

“Sloan,” Darcy said quietly, scrolling through the scans, “I want you to understand what this actually is.