There it all was, in brutal, undeniable clarity, blown up ten feet high for the entire board to see.

The backdated invoices.

The registries of the shell companies, showing my stepmother’s brother as their beneficial owner.

The forged authorization signatures, executed in my dead father’s name on dates after his death.

And, at the bottom, the digital waveform of the recording, which I let play into the silent room in Wendy’s own unmistakable voice: Backdate the invoices and move enough capital before the auditors start counting.

The three directors Wendy had spent years cultivating stared at that screen in open horror.