The audio was only the beginning. I spend my working life reading balance sheets for the discrepancy people bury, and the moment I heard Sebastian Crane’s name I understood the trip to Paris had never been the plan. It was the finale. For two years my own wealth manager, the man who slid me clean quarterly reports across a polished table and told me my grandmother’s inheritance was untouched, had been moving six hundred and twenty thousand dollars out of my secondary accounts through Caribbean brokerages, and Warren had been spending it to keep Grayson’s failing company alive. The house, the forged deed, the credit line, all of it was the last piece, the part where they took the one asset they had not yet been able to reach, because it had my grandmother’s name behind mine and eight years of clean title.
What Warren never accounted for was that I had noticed. Not everything, but enough. Eleven months earlier I had flagged a rounding irregularity in one of Sebastian’s reports, so small that he laughed it off as a formatting error, and I had let him think I believed him, and I had quietly opened a separate audit trail of my own through my firm’s compliance division. When Cordelia stopped me in the driveway, I already had the beginnings of the thread. Their bathroom toast just handed me the spool.
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