And in a folder labeled “Contingency,” I found the smoking gun. A drafted memo to the board, backdated by a year, complete with my forged digital signature, stating that the company’s core intellectual property had been developed entirely by Grant’s engineering team — effectively nullifying my ownership.

Worse was the second file: a meticulously curated false paper trail designed to frame Lucas, Vanessa’s younger brother, for the entire embezzlement scheme if the SEC ever came knocking.

Grant was setting Lucas up for twenty years in federal prison.

I downloaded everything. Every audio file of their midnight scheming, every forged PDF, every wire receipt. I compiled it onto an encrypted flash drive no bigger than my thumbnail and taped it to the underside of my mattress.

But data wasn’t enough. The conservatorship was a legal iron maiden. Even with the evidence, my signature meant nothing, my voice meant nothing. The court would look at my medical file and dismiss my claims as paranoid delusion.

Whatever I brought them, Grant’s lawyer would say a woman who coded the system could have faked it.