I opened the envelope right there at the podium, and for the first time in months my hands did not shake. “Spencer, before I sign anything, I want everyone to hear what your father wrote,” I said into the microphone. The hangar fell silent. Curtis Penrose stepped forward, his smile tight, and reached for the papers. Spencer’s grip tightened on my hand. “Mom, this is not the place,” he whispered.

I unfolded Howard’s letter, then the page beneath it, a bank record showing a company name Colette knew very well. Her face went white. Neil Brandt, standing near the front row, took a slow step toward the exit. “This,” I said, “is where one million four hundred thousand dollars of your father’s company went.” Behind the hangar doors, the sound of a car engine rose, and two uniformed officers walked in.