MY DAUGHTER-IN-LAW DRAGGED MY 3-YEAR-OLD GRANDDAUGHTER ACROSS THE FLOOR—THEN I WALKED IN.

For a long moment, I stared at my own name on that ledger.

"Is this your signature?" Detective Quinn asked.

"No. But that's my authorization code."

It was printed beside transfers that had drained millions from the foundation's accounts. I knew nothing about them. Yet each one carried the digital approval normally reserved for me.

"Who had access?" Naomi asked.

"My deputy. And the foundation's chief financial officer."

"Name?"

"Gideon Mercer."

Mercer had worked for my family for twenty-two years. He had spoken at my husband's funeral, brought flowers to Julian's wedding, and personally recommended the Swiss specialist who later declared me unfit to conduct business.

I wanted to defend him. The fact that I wanted to defend him frightened me.

Quinn folded the papers. "We'll follow the money. Don't call him."

That afternoon, Vanessa appeared on national television. She wore a plain cream blouse instead of diamonds, and tears glittered beautifully beneath her eyes.

"I only wanted Maya to have a normal life," she told the interviewer. "Evelyn is a powerful woman who cannot stand being told no."

The camera showed old photographs of me with world leaders, then a close-up of Maya's frightened face from the gala.

"They used her picture," Rosa said, horrified.

I switched the television off.

At sunset a courier delivered a plain envelope to the safe house. There was no return address.

Inside was a recent photograph of Julian sitting in a wheelchair, one hand wrapped in a bandage. A newspaper bearing that day's date rested on his lap.