The message preview lit up the dark bathroom doorway, and I could read it from the bed without moving. It came from a contact saved only as “Harlow Credit,” and it read: “Her cottages should cover the full amount. Winifred says do it before Christmas.” I stopped breathing. I had never told him about any cottages. Not once. The shower kept running, and my hands went cold against the quilt.

I picked up the phone before I could talk myself out of it. Beneath that message were dozens more, stretching back months, with figures, addresses in Padstow, and a photograph of my own ledger. Then the water stopped. The bathroom door opened, and Gregory stepped out with a towel around his neck, staring at the phone in my hand. His face went white. “Helena,” he whispered, “put that down, or you’ll never understand what I did.”