You saw it.”
“You showed me a wire transfer to an offshore account in the Caymans,” I said.
“An account that Emeric Vasser administered for the family estate.
Not an account she ever touched.”
I took my tablet out of my jacket, unlocked it, and brought up a set of files I had been carrying, quietly, for three years.
“I was twenty-six when Yelena disappeared, Mother.
I was destroyed, and I was grieving, and I was young enough and broken enough to believe every word you told me.” I stepped toward her.
“But I’m thirty-two now.
I’ve run Ravensworth International for four years.
And do you want to know what I did three years ago, when it first occurred to me to wonder why Emeric Vasser’s retirement had been funded quite so lavishly?”
Her chest was rising and falling too fast now.
“I commissioned an independent forensic audit of the foundation’s books from that year,” I said.
“Quietly.
Outside the firm.