The woman behind him was not family, and she was not a stranger to my sister. “Agent Helena Voss, state financial crimes unit,” she said, and I shook her hand without feeling it. “Claire contacted us five weeks ago. She balanced her accounts before breakfast, Marissa. She knew what a pattern looked like.” Voss explained that money from Claire’s accounts, and from the trust our grandmother had left the three of us, had been drifting toward accounts held by Gavin and Paige for almost two years. Claire had found it, copied it, and told only the two people in that room. Then she had gone to dinner at Gavin’s one more time, because she wanted to watch his face.

The explanation we had been given, a sudden heart event, had never fit, and Voss would not pretend to know more than she could prove. “The review of her death has been reopened,” she said quietly. “And what we can already prove is enough.” I finally understood why Gavin looked managed instead of mourning. He was not grieving a sister. He was counting what her silence protected. That night I went to the paperwork dinner anyway, wearing my coat, with a small recorder in my pocket. I said almost nothing and let him talk. Training taught me patience. Claire taught me to wait for the pattern.