Marcus was quiet for a long moment.
Then he said, “Thomas once told me you were the smartest person in every room that underestimated you.”
Eleanor closed her eyes.
“Then let’s prove my husband right.”
The meeting was set for eleven that night at Knox’s private dining club in Chicago, a place with no sign and a waiting list for people rich enough to pretend they did not fear the owner.
Eleanor wore her mother’s black wool coat and a gray dress she had last worn to Thomas’s funeral. In the coat pocket, Ruth slipped a small recorder. In Eleanor’s tote bag, Colin placed the decoy ledger, carefully arranged with copied pages exactly where Eleanor wanted Knox to find them.
“No weapon?” Colin asked.
Eleanor looked at him.
“If I bring one, I become the kind of woman he understands.”
Claire began to cry.
Eleanor turned to her sister-in-law.
“I am angry at you.”
“I know.”
“I may be angry for a long time.”
“I know.”
“But you loved me?”
Claire wiped her face.
“Like my own blood.”
“Then pray like it.”
Colin drove Eleanor to the corner near the club. Marcus’s cars were already in place, though she could see only one. That unsettled her and comforted her.
Before she got out, Colin caught her hand.
“Ellie.”
She looked at her brother. He had taught her to ride a bicycle. He had scared off her first boyfriend. He had lied to her for most of her life.
“I thought I was saving you,” he said.
“I know.”
“That does not make it right.”
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
Eleanor squeezed his hand.
“Bring Amelia home. We’ll decide what forgiveness costs after breakfast.”
Then she stepped out and walked alone.
The club door opened before she knocked.
A host with a boxer’s nose and tired eyes led her down a narrow hallway.
“Mrs. Quinn,” he said softly, “your husband was a decent man.”
Eleanor stopped.
“Did everyone know my husband except me?”
The host lowered his gaze.
“No, ma’am. Some of us only knew what he risked.”
Adrian Knox waited in a private room at a round table set for two.
He was seventy-three, broad-shouldered, white-haired, and dressed like a senator at a funeral. A steak sat untouched in front of him. Three men stood along the wall.
“Eleanor Quinn,” he said. “The widow walks in.”
“My niece walks out.”
He smiled.
“Business first. Family after.”
“No,” Eleanor said, sitting. “Family is the only reason there is business.”
One of the men against the wall glanced at her.
Good, Eleanor thought.
Listen.
She placed the tote bag on the table.
“I want to hear Amelia’s voice.”
“You are not in a position to demand anything.”
“I am the only person in this building holding what you want. That is a position.”
Knox studied her.
“You have your father’s mouth.”
“I have my mother’s patience. That should worry you more.”
His smile thinned.
He gestured.
One of the men dialed a number, spoke softly, then held the phone out.
“Aunt Ellie?” Amelia sobbed.
Eleanor’s chest nearly collapsed.
“Baby. Listen to me. Are you hurt?”
“No. I’m scared.”
“I know. You are going to do exactly what the man named Daniel tells you.”
“How do you know Daniel?”
Eleanor looked at the youngest man against the wall. He did not move, but his eyes flickered.
“Because Uncle Tom still knows useful people,” Eleanor said. “Be brave for ten more minutes.”
“I love you.”
“I love you more than anything.”
The phone was taken away.
Eleanor placed the ledger on the table and slid it halfway to Knox.
“Your turn.”
Knox opened it slowly, with the reverence of a man who believed history had finally apologized to him.
He turned pages.
His smile widened at the crime records.
Then he reached the account pages.
The room tightened.
His finger stopped.
“What is this?”
“My husband’s handwriting.”
“These names should not be here.”
“Why not?”
His eyes snapped to hers.
“Because this is false.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about.”
“These are my sons.”
“Yes.”
“These are private family distributions.”
“Is that what you call theft when the victims share your blood?”
One of the men against the wall shifted his weight.
Knox heard it.
So did Eleanor.
“Careful,” he said.
“No, Mr. Knox. You be careful. The loyal men behind you are reading over your shoulder, and they are seeing names and numbers they were told disappeared into federal seizures that never happened. They are wondering why a dead accountant knew about accounts in Zurich, Nassau, and a woman named Celia Marrow who owns a penthouse your wife has never visited.”
Knox’s face drained.
The recorder in Eleanor’s pocket warmed against her ribs.
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I know forty-three million dollars is enough money to make sons ask questions their father cannot survive.”
The youngest man against the wall moved his hand near his jacket.
Not yet, Eleanor thought.