My mother called my six-year-old daughter “a burden” at Christmas dinner, so I took her presents and walked out—but by New Year’s, Grandma was begging for a second chance.

Davies re-entered the parlor, wiping cold sweat from his forehead. "Forensics is on their way down to the sub-basement. Duval mentioned something about hidden compartments in the study."

"Behind the wainscoting on the north wall," Claire said, standing up. "Julian kept his audio logs there. He never trusted Mother. He recorded every conversation they had in that room since 1991—every time they discussed the dividend diversions, every time they planned how to isolate Emma."

Emma felt a chill run down her spine. "He recorded them?"

"Julian was a sociopath, Emma," Claire replied coldly. "Sociopaths keep collateral. When he realized Eleanor might turn on him if the federal heat got too intense, he documented every order she gave him. The feds won't even need our testimony. Eleanor’s own voice will convict her ten times over."

Emma walked with Davies and Claire into the dark, wood-paneled study. The scent of stale tobacco, leather, and decaying paper hung thick in the air. Davies signaled an agent with a pry bar, who wedged the iron tool beneath the decorative molding behind the massive oak desk.

With a dry, splintering crack, the false panel gave way.

Inside the wall cavity sat a row of black magnetic tapes, numbered in neat, clinical handwriting, alongside a small steel safe. But resting right in front of the tapes was an unsealed manila envelope with Emma’s name scrawled across the front in their father’s shaky, cursive hand.

Emma’s breath hitched. She reached into the cavity and pulled out the envelope. The paper was brittle, yellowed around the edges by decades of hiding in the dark.

"What is it?" Davies asked gently.