“Sierra Vaughn.”

“That’s exactly two hundred and eighty thousand dollars drained from your household fund in six weeks,” Richard said.

“He was emptying your accounts while telling you to cut back on baby formula.”

He touched his watch again, then picked up the desk phone.

“I’m calling Daniel Harris at home.”

By eleven o’clock, the sun was a pale white disk behind the clouds over Madison Avenue, turning the limestone buildings a dull chalky gray.

The ninth-floor office of Harris and Croft Law was quiet, its brass wall lights dimmed for the holiday.