By midnight, the library was littered with decades of archival records. Claire had arrived from town, bringing three boxes of audited financial statements that had been sealed during Patricia’s original bankruptcy liquidation.

"Patricia was thorough, but she was vain," Claire remarked, methodically sorting through stacks of tax ledgers. "She never trusted third-party lawyers. Whenever she moved capital out of the state, she used the same notary public—a man named Horace Sterling."

"Sterling died eight months ago," Marcus noted without looking away from his monitors. "His estate was settled without fanfare. His law office on River Street was sold to a development group."

"Did he have partners?" I asked, flipping through an old escrow register. "A clerk? An associate who would have stamped a document without asking questions?"

"A daughter," Eleanor spoke up from the armchair. She was polishing her spectacles with a silk handkerchief, her eyes distant with memory. "Catherine Sterling. She was a brilliant girl, three years behind Daniel at the academy. Patricia paid her law school tuition through an anonymous foundation grant. I remember Julian mentioning it during a board dinner—he thought it was charity. Patricia laughed and said it was an investment in loyalty."

Daniel’s head snapped up. "Catherine Sterling left Ashport six years ago. The rumor was that she took an in-house position with an investment firm in London."

"She didn't go to London," Marcus said, his voice dropping an octave as his screen flashed green. "Her passport was flagged entering Boston four days ago. And twenty-four hours later, she checked into the Grand Harbour Hotel right here in downtown Ashport."

The air in the room shifted instantly.

"She’s here," I said, my heart pounding against my ribs. "She’s the proxy."

"She isn't just the proxy," Marcus continued, pulling up a series of financial transfers on his secondary monitor. "Look at the funding stream for the Swiss trust’s legal retainer. The wire transfers didn't originate from Switzerland or London. They originated from an account opened at Ashport Trust two weeks ago, funded by cash deposits structured just under the federal reporting limit."

"Local money," Daniel murmured. "Someone in Ashport is financing her."

"Patricia didn't act alone that afternoon," I said, piecing together the memories that had haunted me for years. "The day she left Mia and me at the cottage, she told me that no one in this town would ever choose an outsider over a Hayes. She said there were people who owed their lives, their businesses, and their family fortunes to the Hayes name."

"A loyalist faction," Eleanor whispered, a trace of bitter sorrow in her voice. "The families who made their millions through Patricia’s private syndicates. When she fell, their dividends dried up. They’ve been waiting for us to lower our guard."

"They picked the wrong week," Daniel said. His voice was calm, but there was an unmistakable undercurrent of cold, lethal resolve. He looked at Marcus. "Get the car ready. We're going to pay Miss Sterling a visit."

"No," I interrupted, standing up from behind the desk.

Daniel turned to me, surprised. "Victoria, this is dangerous. We don't know who is backing her."

"That's exactly why you can't go storming into her hotel room," I said, meeting his gaze evenly. "If you go, it's an executive confrontation. It gives them grounds to claim harassment and seek an immediate emergency injunction from the presiding county judge. But if I go, it's a foundation director inquiring about an encumbrance on community property. I know how Patricia operated. She preyed on intimidation. We don't intimidate her—we expose her."