Two guards normally stationed near the lower corridor had been moved to an exterior delivery entrance between 1:30 and 2:30.

The request had come through an administrative account.

Reason: scheduled maintenance.

There had been no maintenance.

“Where is Arthur?” Adrienne asked.

“Not answering.”

“Victoria?”

“In the east sitting room.”

Adrienne went upstairs.

His aunt was waiting beside the fireplace with a glass of water she had not touched.

“You’re frightening the staff,” she told him.

“Why were you downstairs with Arthur?”

“The inventory.”

“You said you were in the library.”

“I was.”

“Before that.”

She set the glass down.

“Adrienne, be careful. You’re upset.”

He had heard that tone all his life.

When his father died.

When he questioned a business decision.

When he first told her he intended to marry me.

You’re upset.

As if emotion made a fact less true.

“Clare had an appointment,” he said.

Victoria’s expression did not change.

“If she told you that—”

“There was a message. Someone removed it.”

“Then let the professionals investigate.”

“I intend to.”

For the first time, she seemed to understand that he meant someone outside the family.

At Naomi’s kitchen table, I opened my laptop.

My hands had steadied enough to type.

The confirmation email was gone from my inbox and trash.

The calendar invitation was gone too.

I stared at the empty search results.

Naomi stood beside me.

“You said you printed it.”

“I left the page downstairs.”

“Did you print anything else at the same time?”

I looked up.

“Yes.”

My preliminary reconciliation.

Six pages.

I had printed the meeting confirmation first because it had appeared at the top of the document queue.

Then I had printed my notes.

The printer in my office was temperamental. When it skipped a page, I often saved the whole batch as one file and sent it through again.

I opened my local downloads.

There it was.

Seven pages.

The first page contained the appointment.

The last page contained the discrepancy I had intended to ask Arthur about.

I had been so focused on clearing my name that I had forgotten what had sent me downstairs in the first place.

Naomi leaned closer.

“What’s Halcyon Advisory?”

“A vendor.”

“For what?”

“That was my question.”

The trust had paid Halcyon for archival consulting.

Three payments over eight months.

Each just below the threshold requiring a second trustee’s written approval.

Together, they totaled six hundred and eighty thousand dollars.

The supporting invoices were nearly identical.

Even the punctuation errors matched.

I had marked them in red.

I opened the file properties.

Saved at 9:06 that morning.

Before the diamonds disappeared.

Before the search.

Before anyone could claim I had invented an appointment afterward.

My phone was off, but Naomi’s buzzed.

A message from an unfamiliar number.

She read it, then handed me the screen.

It was Marco.

Please tell Clare we found the missing camera footage. She does not need to speak to Mr. Duca. She should preserve her audit files and contact independent counsel.

Below it was a second message.

Someone has just attempted to access her trust account.

I looked back at my laptop.

A notification appeared in the corner.

Remote deletion requested.

The cursor moved before I touched it.