At the bottom of the stack was a wire transfer receipt for half a million dollars.

The doctor they’d bought wasn’t one of mine. He was a cash-hungry neurologist with a bad reputation and a signature on every page of those fabricated cognitive evaluations — the paperwork they’d need to prove I couldn’t manage my own affairs.

They believed they’d cornered a broken man.

What they’d actually done was document their own felonies and hand the evidence to the majority shareholder, acting CEO, and legal owner of every asset they were trying to take.

I looked up at Clara’s wide, frightened eyes.

“Are you afraid?” I asked.