"You and Adrian can rent somewhere smaller," he said.

My attorney's name was Patricia Voss.

I had hired her two years earlier for a contract dispute at work, and I had kept her number because she had the particular quality I valued most in a lawyer: she listened more than she spoke, and when she did speak, she did not waste words.

I called her from the parking lot outside the coffee shop while Maya waited inside.

"I need to see you today," I said.

"Not tomorrow.

Today."

A brief pause.

"How serious?"

"Domestic violence charge against my husband.

Possible financial fraud involving his father.

A witness with documented evidence.

And the family's attorney already trying to reach me."

Another pause, longer this time.

"Don't speak to Garrett Fosse," she said.

"Don't respond to any communication from him or from anyone in that family.

Come to my office at two o'clock and bring the witness."

Patricia's office was on the fourteenth floor of a building in the Financial District.

She met us in the conference room herself rather than sending an assistant, which told me she had already understood the weight of it.

She shook Maya's hand, poured water for both of us, and sat down with a legal pad and her full attention.

Maya told her everything she had told me.

Patricia did not interrupt.

She wrote steadily, her handwriting small and precise, and when Maya finished, Patricia set down her pen and looked at the USB drive on the table.

"May I?" she asked.

Maya nodded.

Patricia plugged it into her laptop and scrolled in silence for several minutes.

Her expression did not change, but at one point she stopped scrolling and leaned slightly forward, and I watched her read the same section of a document three times.

"How long have you had this?" she asked Maya.

"Two years."

Patricia looked up.

"And you've shown it to no one until today?"

"No one."

Patricia sat back.

"All right.

I need to be direct with you both about what this is." She turned the laptop so we could see the screen.

"These are transfer records from the Harmon Family Foundation to a series of private accounts over a period of approximately sixteen years.

The amounts are consistent and regular.

The properties listed as the source of the income are — as you said — officially classified as vacant or condemned in public records." She paused.

"This is not a small discrepancy.

If these records are accurate, we are looking at significant tax fraud, potentially wire fraud, and depending on the condition of those properties and the nature of the tenants' arrangements, possibly other violations related to unlicensed rental of uninhabitable dwellings."

Maya's hands were flat on the table.

"What does that mean for Charles?"

"It means that if these records are authenticated and corroborated, Charles Harmon is facing federal exposure." Patricia said it plainly, without drama.

"The IRS, potentially the FBI.

This is not something that gets resolved with a private settlement."

"And Adrian?" I asked.

Patricia found the transfer authorizations Maya had mentioned.

She read them carefully.

"His signature appears on seven documents.

That makes him a knowing participant, not a peripheral figure." She looked at me.

"Claire.

I need to ask you something directly."

"Go ahead."

"When you married Adrian, did you have any joint financial accounts?

Any shared investments?

Any property held in both names?"

"No," I said.

"My condo is in my name only.

I kept all my accounts separate.

Adrian suggested combining them twice in the first year and I declined both times."

Something shifted in Patricia's expression.

Not surprise.

Recognition.

"He pushed for it?"

"He framed it as a practical matter.

Easier for taxes, he said.

I told him I preferred to keep things separate." I paused.

"He didn't argue.

He just stopped asking."

"Because he knew you'd be harder to access if he couldn't get to your accounts directly," Patricia said.

"So they moved to the next approach.

The condo transfer.

The monthly payment.

Getting Eleanor's name onto your bank account." She closed the laptop.

"Claire, this family has been planning to extract your assets since before last night.

Last night was just the moment they decided to stop being subtle about it."

The room was quiet for a moment.

Maya spoke first.

"What do we do now?"

"We move carefully and we move quickly," Patricia said.

"I'm going to contact a forensic accountant I trust to authenticate these records.

Simultaneously, I'm going to reach out to the detective handling Claire's assault case and make sure they understand the full scope of what was found in that basement." She looked at Maya.

"You are going to need your own representation.

Independent from Claire's case.

I can give you a name."

"Will Daniel be charged?" Maya asked.

Her voice was steady but her eyes were not.

Patricia considered the question.

"That depends on what he knew and when he knew it.

If his involvement is limited, there may be room to cooperate.

But that is a conversation for your own attorney." She paused.

"I'm sorry.

I know this is not a simple situation."

Maya nodded slowly.

"I've known for two years it wasn't simple."

Patricia gathered her notes and stood.

"One more thing.

Garrett Fosse is going to move fast once Charles realizes the basement has been searched.

He will try to get ahead of this — frame it as a misunderstanding, offer something to make it go away, or find a way to discredit both of you." She looked at us in turn.

"Do not speak to anyone from that family.

Do not respond to Fosse.

Do not post anything publicly.

And if Adrian contacts you, Claire — you say nothing and you call me immediately."

I nodded.

We were almost to the door when Patricia said, "Claire."

I turned.

"You kept your assets separate.

You called 911 with twenty witnesses in the room.

You documented everything in real time." She held my gaze.

"You were more prepared for this than you knew."

I thought about that on the elevator down.