Elias stood beside the control booth.
I lifted the remote.
“Play the first file.”
The engagement portrait disappeared.
The screen went black.
Then my mother’s photograph appeared.
Shelby dropped her champagne.
The glass shattered.
“Vivienne,” Preston said. “Don’t.”
I looked at Shelby.
“Interesting reaction.”
She stood.
“What are you doing?”
“Showing everyone why you met my mother the night before she collapsed.”
Murmurs spread.
Preston turned toward Shelby.
That surprised me.
He didn’t know.
Good.
I continued.
“My mother believed someone was stealing from Hartwell Properties.”
The screen changed.
Transfers appeared.
Shell companies.
Account numbers.
Corporate records.
“Over three years, $4.8 million was redirected through consulting firms controlled indirectly by Preston Blackwell.”
Guests gasped.
Preston lunged toward the stage.
Security blocked him.
“This is fabricated!”
Elias stepped forward.
“It has been independently audited.”
I clicked again.
The forged trust amendment appeared.
“And when stealing wasn’t enough, someone attempted to obtain control of my family trust by having me declared mentally incompetent.”
Shelby backed away from the table.
I displayed the psychiatric documents.
Her name.
Her notes.
Her signature.
I looked at her.
“You spent months telling me grief was making me paranoid.”
Shelby’s face trembled.
“You were unstable.”
“No.”
I smiled.
“I was correct.”
Applause started somewhere in the back.
Not celebration.
Recognition.
Preston shouted.
“This is insane!”
I looked toward him.
“Would you like to discuss Suite 1408?”
His face collapsed.
The hotel invoice appeared.
Date.
Time.
Champagne.
Dinner.
The night my mother died.
Shelby whispered, “Stop.”
I heard it through the microphone.
I turned.
“What did you say?”
Her mascara had begun to run.
“Stop.”
“You didn’t stop when my mother was dying.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
Preston snapped.
“Don’t say anything.”
Shelby turned toward him.
And something passed between them.
Fear.
Not affection.
Fear.
I knew then that I had reached the secret.
I clicked the remote.
Security footage appeared.
My mother entering Hartwell Tower.
Shelby arriving.
The timestamp glowed.
7:26 p.m.
The night before my mother collapsed.
The ballroom erupted.
Shelby shook her head.
“No.”
“What did you give her?”
“Nothing.”
“What did you take?”
“Nothing!”
Preston shouted.
“Vivienne, enough!”
Then another voice spoke.
“No.”
Everyone turned.
Elias stepped onto the stage.
“There’s one more file.”
I looked at him.
“What file?”
His expression stopped me cold.
I had never seen it.
“Elias?”
He reached into his jacket.
“This arrived at my office three days ago.”
“From whom?”
He looked toward the screen.
“Your mother.”
I almost dropped the microphone.
“My mother is dead.”
“Yes.”
“She’s been dead eight months.”
“I know.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
“She arranged delayed delivery through her attorney.”
Elias handed the technician a drive.
