“This first folder,” I said, sliding it toward my father, “is a complete log of every keystroke made on my network for the last seven days. Timestamped. Attributed to the device Desmond connected to my dining table on the morning you all thought I was boarding a ship.” I opened the second. “This is the power of attorney he filed in my name, with a signature I never wrote. This is the mortgage transfer against my house. Three hundred eighty thousand dollars.” My father’s face had gone gray. My mother reached for the folder, then stopped, as if it might burn her.

But it was the third folder I set down slowly, right in front of my sister. “Rosalind,” I said quietly, “you should read this one first.” She looked at me, then down, and I watched her open it with shaking hands. Inside was a single printed itinerary. One first-class ticket, one-time transfer, out of the country, in Desmond’s name only, dated for the following morning. Beneath it, bank records showing the transferred funds routed to an account she wasn’t on. “You thought he was building your future,” I said. “He booked one seat. He was going to leave you holding my forged paperwork and take the money alone.” The room went so silent I could hear the candles hiss. And then Desmond made the mistake that ended everything: he stood up and reached for the folders.