Claire Ashworth had not changed.

She was waiting at a corner table in the Hargrove satellite office downtown — a small, quiet room used for external meetings, with a keypad entry and no receptionist on Sundays.

She had a legal pad in front of her and a pen she wasn't using.

She stood when I walked in and looked at me the way she always had — not with pity, not with warmth exactly, but with the particular attention of someone who was always measuring the distance between what a person said and what they meant.

"You look like you haven't slept," she said.

"I got married yesterday."

She sat back down.

"Tell me everything.

In order."

I told her.

I started with the dish towel and I ended with Robert Mercer's document.

I placed it on the table between us the same way he had placed it in front of me.

She read it without touching it first, leaning forward with her glasses pushed up.

Then she put on a pair of latex gloves from her bag — she had come prepared — and picked it up.

"Meridian Crest," she said.

"You've seen it before."

"The name appeared once, in a footnote, in a filing from 2021.

We flagged it and lost the thread." She turned the page.

"Gerald Howe."

"He officiated the wedding."

Claire set the document down and looked at me.

"Elena," she said.

"Do you understand what you walked into?"

"I'm starting to."

"This is not a domestic dispute.

What you're describing — the targeting, the pattern of marriages, the use of spousal access to influence a compliance review — this is coordinated financial fraud.

Potentially federal."

"I know."

"Which means the moment Julian realizes you've spoken to anyone, he will move to protect himself.

He will try to discredit you.

He may try to claim the cashier's check was obtained improperly.

He may —"

"Claire." I stopped her.

"I know.

I spent six years in this building.

Tell me what you need from me."

She was quiet for a moment.

"I need you to go back," she said.

I looked at her.

"Not permanently.

Not as his wife in any real sense.

But if you disappear today, they close ranks and we lose the thread again." She tapped the document.

"Robert gave you this because he wants out.

But Robert is also one of the four names on this page.

If he decides between now and Tuesday that cooperation is too costly, he reverses course and we have nothing but a document he can claim you fabricated."

"You want me to go back to that house."

"I want you to go back tonight.

Act as though the morning was a misunderstanding.

Give Julian enough confidence to keep talking." She met my eyes.

"And I need you to wear a wire."

The room was very quiet.

"How long?" I said.

"Seventy-two hours.

Possibly less.

We have enough to move on Meridian Crest now.

We just need one conversation — one admission — that connects Julian directly to the intent to use your access."

I thought about the kitchen.

The dish towel.

Julian's hand on my wrist.

"If I go back in there," I said, "and something goes wrong —"

"I will have two people outside the house from the moment you walk in," Claire said.

"You say the word and they come through the door."

"What's the word?"

She almost smiled.

"Your choice."

I looked at the document on the table.

Four names.

A four-year pattern.

Eleven marriages.

"Tuesday," I said.

"The check clears Tuesday."

"Yes."

"If I do this, I want it on record that I cooperated voluntarily.

I want it on record that the cashier's check is mine, legally and without dispute."

"Done."

I stood up.

"The word is *breakfast*," I said.

Claire wrote it down.

I drove back to Julian's house in the late morning light with a small recording device taped beneath the collar of my coat, a direct line to Claire's team open in my left ear, and the marriage certificate still in my suitcase.

When I rang the doorbell — I did not use my key — Julian answered.

He looked at me.

Then at the suitcase.

Then back at me.

"I think we should talk," I said.

He stepped aside to let me in.

Victoria was in the kitchen.

She turned when she heard my voice, and something moved across her face — relief, suspicion, and calculation, in that order.

"Elena," she said.

"I'm glad you came back."

"I'm sure you are," I said pleasantly.

I set my suitcase by the stairs and sat down at the kitchen table.

Julian sat across from me.

"I overreacted this morning," he said.

"The towel — that was a bad joke.

It got out of hand."

"It's fine," I said.

"I understand."

He relaxed slightly.

That was a mistake.