Corbin stared at her.

“What was his name?”

“Nathan Prescott.”

He searched his memory for the name and came up with nothing at all, and the nothing made him deeply uncomfortable, because a man had worked for his company, and died in a way that had brought a lawyer to his widow’s door, and Corbin Stanford had never once heard his name.

That was the first measure he took, that evening, of how much his family had kept from him, and it would not be the last.

Lianna picked up a single sheet of paper from the table and held it out to him.