LET GO OF THE MICROPHONE. THAT BOY WILL TELL HIS STORY.” THE BILLIONAIRE’S FIANCÉE GRABBED HIS 64-YEAR-OLD FORMER

The hotel lobby was pure chaos when we arrived. Fire alarms blared, guests milled around in pajamas, and thick gray smoke hung in the upper atrium.

Graham pushed through the crowd, flashing his ID to the fire marshal. “My foundation offices are on the fourth floor. What’s the status?”

“We contained the blaze to the archive room, Mr. Whitmore,” the marshal yelled over the noise. “But everything in there is gone. Paper files, hard drives, all reduced to ash.”

Graham swore under his breath. “The financial records for the last ten years were in that room.”

I held Sarah’s arm tightly as we found Dr. Reeves standing near the elevators with the twelve children. When Eli saw his mother, he broke away from the group and sprinted toward her.

Sarah fell to her knees, burying her face in her son’s neck. They clung to each other, crying openly in the middle of the crowded lobby. I felt tears prick my own eyes. This was why we were fighting.

Graham watched them for a moment, his jaw tight, before turning back to the fire marshal. “Did you catch who started it?”

“No,” the marshal replied. “But the security cameras caught a man in a maintenance uniform leaving the stairwell two minutes before the alarms went off. We’re pulling the footage now.”

“It was Arthur’s contingency plan,” Graham said to me, running a hand through his hair. “He knew if he got caught, he needed to destroy the paper trail. Without those ledgers, proving exactly how much they stole—and where it went—will take years of forensic accounting. By then, the money will be scattered across fifty different offshore accounts.”

I thought about the brass key Graham had given me earlier. “You said the key opens your private office. Was that burned too?”

Graham shook his head. “No, my office is on the opposite side of the floor. But the financial documents weren’t kept there.”

“Let’s go look anyway,” I insisted. “Teachers know that guilty students always leave something behind.”

After getting clearance from the fire department, Graham and I took the service elevator to the fourth floor. The air smelled of burnt plastic and damp carpets.

Graham’s private office was untouched. It was a beautiful room overlooking the Chicago skyline, but it felt cold.

I started opening desk drawers while Graham booted up his desktop computer.

“It’s useless, Margaret,” he sighed. “Arthur was meticulous. He wouldn’t leave a smoking gun in my desk.”

I opened the bottom drawer. It was mostly empty, except for a sleek, black leather coat folded neatly in the corner.

“Why do you keep a woman’s coat in your desk?” I asked, pulling it out.

Graham frowned. “I don’t. That’s Vivian’s. She left it here yesterday.”

I patted the pockets. In the left pocket, my fingers brushed against something stiff. I pulled out a folded piece of heavy cardstock.

It was a boarding pass.

First class. O’Hare to Zurich, Switzerland. The flight was scheduled for tomorrow morning at 6:00 AM.

But it wasn’t just the destination that made my heart race. It was the name printed on the ticket.

Passenger: Sarah Turner.

I showed it to Graham. His eyes widened. “Why would Vivian buy a one-way ticket to Switzerland in Sarah’s name?”

“Because,” a calm voice said from the doorway, “if Sarah Turner emptied the Vanguard accounts and fled the country, the FBI would close the case. And I would meet her there, take the money, and disappear.”