Raymond Hughes, my daughter’s corporate lawyer, came into the living room carrying a heavy black briefcase, a sealed envelope, and a USB drive sealed inside a clear plastic bag.

“This can wait until tomorrow,” Bradley said, frowning at the intrusion.

“It was Katherine’s explicit instruction that it happen now,” Raymond replied, ignoring him.

He opened the sealed envelope and took out a letter in my daughter’s handwriting. At the top of the page it read: For my mom, for Tanya, and for anyone who thought my death would make them rich.

Heather went pale, her confidence gone in a second. Bradley lunged to snatch the document.

“If you touch that paper,” Raymond said, his voice calm and lethal, “I hand over the digital copy that’s already logged at the Prosecutor’s Office.”