I closed my eyes, letting the darkness behind my eyelids conjure a memory from exactly two weeks earlier.

Mom had called me into her private study, a room fragrant with dried eucalyptus and old paper. She’d looked exceptionally fragile that day, shadows bruised beneath her eyes.

When I asked what was wrong, she rigidly refused to explain. Instead, her trembling fingers pressed a small, encrypted flash drive into my palm.

“You understand the numbers better than anyone in this family, Ellen,” she’d whispered, her eyes darting toward the hallway as if expecting Arthur to appear.

“If something happens… if things go wrong. Follow the money. Don’t trust the words. Follow the ledger.”

My father had spent his entire life mocking my chosen profession. I was a senior forensic accountant for a prominent auditing firm downtown. To Arthur Hale—a titan of real estate development who dealt in handshakes, intimidation, and sweeping emotional pitches—my work was pedestrian.