Renting a room in a shared house.”

I didn’t feel a surge of triumph. I just felt a profound pity. “Why are you here, Madison?”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small white envelope, sliding it through the gap in the door.

“It’s a money order,” she said softly. “Two hundred dollars. The first installment for the compass. I know I can’t replace the history, but I looked up what the antique was worth.

I owe Dad.” She paused, forcing herself to meet my eyes. “And I owe you an apology. You were protecting your home. I was trying to steal it.”

It wasn’t a perfect apology. It didn’t erase the violation of my office, or the fraud, or the years of disrespect. But it was a start. It was accountability.