000.
Daniel stepped backward.
I had discovered Brighton three weeks earlier.
Its registered owner was Patricia.
But the bank authorization led somewhere even more interesting.
Daniel.
Patricia suddenly looked at her son.
“You told me she didn’t know.”
There it was.
The first crack.
Daniel lunged for the microphone.
I stepped away.
He lowered his voice.
“Claire, listen to me. We can explain everything privately.”
“You had eighteen months.”
“Don’t destroy my career because of a misunderstanding.”
“You forged my electronic approval on eleven transfers.”
The room erupted.
His father,
