Three days after the hospital, Winslow called while Sabina and I sat on the hotel bed watching cartoons with the volume low, a blanket around her shoulders and a bowl of dry cereal in her lap.

Rain ran down the window, turning the city into blurred silver lines.

“I found something,” he said, his tone too measured.

I stepped into the adjoining room and half-closed the door. “What?”

“Six weeks ago, someone requested formation documents for Elise Grace Properties from your registered agent.”

“Who?”