“Check the bottom corner of that transaction line,” Rebecca said.

I leaned in until my face was four inches from the yellow paper.

Under the red stamp, a line of microprinted digital routing data recorded the exact IP address used to approve the wire.

The number matched the network address of Garrett’s private penthouse computer, printed in a faint gray computer font.

“He figured I was too weak to fight back,” I said.

Rebecca looked up at me, her hands still resting on her stomach.