I pressed my palms to my eyes, cold nausea rolling through me.

A weekend in Aspen, suddenly a money-laundering rendezvous. A loving compliment about my intelligence, just him confirming my firewalls were strong enough to hide his treason.

Then Rachel pulled out a photograph — a young woman in a military dress uniform, her face scarred, her eyes haunted. Below it: Corporal Maya Ellis.

“She’s the face of their foundation,” Rachel said softly. “The Vances claim they funded her whole rehabilitation after her unit was ambushed in Syria.

They parade her at galas to show where the money goes.”

“And the truth?”