My father's name remained on Elena's phone.
THEODORE CARTER
The letters were too clean.
Nothing about the end of his life had been.
His shirts had stopped fitting properly. His hands had begun to shake when he thought I was not looking. Every morning, another envelope arrived carrying the name of a law firm, a lender, an advisory board, or someone who had once called him a friend.
None of them had looked connected.
That had been the point.
"What is the Wilde Foundation doing in this file?" I asked.
Elena pulled out a chair but did not tell me to sit.
"The visible transaction is a grant withdrawal," she said. "The Foundation committed funding to an investor-protection initiative associated with your father's work. Six weeks before his report was meant to become public, it withdrew
