He had come to me eleven days earlier, after he found that Seraphina’s foundation had been diverting disaster-relief donations into luxury properties.

He was terrified of prison.

I offered him no immunity — only the chance to tell the truth before she made him the one who took the fall.

Folarin lunged for the control console, and two undercover detectives caught his arms before he reached it.

I had not been sure, until that night, that the accountant would hold.

He was not a brave man in the ordinary sense; he was a middle-aged man with a mortgage and two kids in college who had spent years quietly signing off on numbers he suspected were wrong, telling himself it was not his job to ask questions.