The financial crimes unit occupied the fourth floor of a building that smelled of old carpet and institutional coffee.

The detective assigned to the case was a woman named Gail Ferris.

She had short gray hair, reading glasses on a chain, and the manner of someone who had heard every version of every story and was still, somehow, interested in this one.

She read through Martin's filing while we sat across from her.

She didn't rush.

She turned each page deliberately, occasionally making a small mark in the margin with a pencil.

When she finished, she set the folder down and looked at Diane.

"You've been collecting this for three years," she said.

"Yes."

"While living under an assumed name."

"Yes."

"Why come forward now?"

Diane glanced at me.

Then back at Ferris.

"Because I found out about the birth certificate," she said.

"I could accept being in hiding.

I could accept losing the money.

I couldn't accept him having any legal pathway to my daughter."

Ferris nodded.

She picked up her pencil and made another mark.

"The transfers are well-documented," she said.

"The altered birth certificate is a significant additional charge.

The threatening phone call to your brother—" she looked at me— "is recoverable from carrier records even without a recording.

We can subpoena those." She set the pencil down.

"I want to be straightforward with you both.

Cases like this take time.

Thomas Hale has resources.

He will hire good attorneys.

This will not be resolved this week."

"I understand," Diane said.

"But." Ferris folded her hands on the desk.

"The evidence you've brought me is among the most organized I've seen from a private individual.

The paper trail is clear.

The pattern is consistent.

And the birth certificate alteration—" she paused—"that one he will not be able to explain away.

That filing has his attorney's notary stamp on a fraudulent document.

That is direct exposure for both of them."

She stood and extended her hand to Diane first.

"Thank you for coming in," she said.

"I know what it cost to get here."

Diane shook her hand.

Her own was steady.

We were in the elevator going down when Diane made a sound I hadn't heard from her since we were children.

A short exhale.

Almost a laugh.

Her hand went to her mouth.

"Sorry," she said.

"I just—" She stopped.

Started again.

"I've been carrying that folder for three years.

I used to take it out at night and check that it was still there.

That the pages hadn't somehow disappeared." She looked at the elevator doors.

"I gave it to someone today.

And it's still real."

I put my arm around her.

She leaned into it for exactly three seconds.

Then she straightened up, because she was Diane, and three seconds was what she allowed herself.

The doors opened.

Martin was waiting in the lobby.

He looked at our faces and said: "Good meeting?"

"Good meeting," I said.

He allowed himself a small smile.

"Then let's go get your sister a proper breakfast.

She looks like she hasn't eaten a full meal since 2021."

Diane looked at him.

"2022, actually."

"Even worse," he said, and held the door.

Outside, the morning was cold and clear.

Diane stopped on the pavement and turned her face up toward the sky for a moment.

Eyes closed.

Just breathing.

I stood beside her and didn't say anything, because there was nothing that needed to be said.

Then she opened her eyes and looked at me.

"I want to go back to Paula's," she said.

"I want to see Mia."

"Let's go," I said.

We walked to the car together.

For the first time in six years, we walked somewhere together without either of us looking back.