She stared at me. For the first time since we’d met, Beatrix had no response prepared.

I opened a folder and removed the rejected bank authorization. Winslow had advised against any dramatic gesture, so I simply set it in the middle of the table, facing her.

“The bank rejected this. My signature doesn’t appear on it — even if someone wanted it to look that way.”

She raised her chin. “I have no idea what that is.”

“Good,” I said. “Then you won’t mind answering questions about it formally.”

Her fingers moved faintly toward her pearls. There it was. The first visible fracture. People like Beatrix don’t fear being disliked. They fear becoming part of a record.