It had been drawn from an off-the-books charitable foundation ledger that Rosalind controlled.

I took out my phone, opened a blank note, and left the device in airplane mode.

I keyed in the date of my third discharge from St.

Jude Clinic: October fourteenth of last year.

That was the rainy afternoon Spencer missed picking me up from the hospital, claiming a corporate real estate acquisition had run late in Midtown.

He hadn’t been in Midtown.

He’d been sitting in a lawyer’s office on East End Avenue, setting up a private trust account for Brielle.