I read the document three times.

The fourth name — Pastor Gerald Howe — sat at the bottom of the transfer list next to a routing number and a date that was six weeks before our wedding.

"Gerald Howe," I said.

"He married us yesterday."

"He has performed eleven ceremonies in the past four years," Robert said.

"Every couple had at least one spouse with financial sector experience.

Every marriage lasted less than six months."

I set the paper down.

"This is a pattern," I said.

"Julian finds the targets.

Victoria vets them.

Gerald provides legitimacy and, in two previous cases, witnessed asset transfer documents that were later used in disputes." Robert's voice was flat, like a man reading from a report he had already read too many times.

"I funded the original business that made it possible.

I did not know what it became."

"But you know now."

"I have known for four months."

"And you did nothing."

He didn't answer.

That was its own answer.

I folded the document and put it in my coat pocket.

"I'm keeping this," I said.

He nodded.

"What do you want from me?" I said.

"Specifically."

"You still have a contact at Hargrove.

Your former supervisor, I believe.

A woman named Claire Ashworth."

My chest tightened slightly at the name.

Claire had trained me.

She had written my first performance review.

She had also been the one to tell me, quietly, over lunch eighteen months ago, that an internal review was opening and that she hoped I had kept my records clean.

"Claire is leading the review," I said.

"Yes."

"And you want me to go to her."

"I want you to give her that document and tell her where to look." He leaned forward slightly.

"The transfers run through a holding company called Meridian Crest.

It does not appear in any of Julian's public filings.

It will not appear in a standard search.

But if someone who knows what to look for goes looking —"

"It unravels," I said.

"Everything unravels."

I stood up.

"If I do this," I said, "and the review finds what you say it will find — your name is on those transfers too.

You understand that."

"Yes," he said.

"You're willing to accept that."

He looked out the window at the street.

A couple walked past with a dog.

Sunday morning, ordinary as anything.

"I have a granddaughter," he said.

"She's four.

I would like her to know, when she's old enough to understand any of this, that I did one thing correctly."

I picked up my bag.

"Don't contact me again," I said.

"Don't call Julian.

Don't warn Victoria.

If you do anything between now and Tuesday that looks like interference, I will hand this document to the review team with a note that says you tried to manage the outcome."

He nodded once.

I walked out.

I sat in my car for two minutes without starting the engine.

Then I took out my phone and found Claire Ashworth's number.

I had not called it in fourteen months.

I pressed dial.

She answered on the second ring.

"Elena." Her voice was careful.

Unsurprised.

"I wondered when you'd call."

"You knew?" I said.

"I knew Julian Mercer's name appeared in a document we pulled three weeks ago," she said.

"I didn't know he was connected to you until I saw the wedding announcement in the alumni newsletter this morning."

My hand tightened on the phone.

"Claire," I said.

"I have something you need to see."

"I know," she said.

"Where are you?"