“It’s a shell company,” I said quietly. “Registered in Delaware. But the mailing address is a P.O. box in Baltimore.”
The officer wrote it down. “Do you know who owns it?”
I looked at Daniel. He was shaking his head. Not at me. At his mother. A small, desperate movement. Like a child trying to signal that he was not the one who should be punished.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I know someone who might.”
I called my brother. His name was Michael. He was a forensic accountant. He had been telling me for years that something was off about Daniel’s family. I had always defended them. I had always said I was being paranoid.
He answered on the second ring.
“Claire? It’s late. Are you okay?”
“No,” I said. “I need you to look at an account number.”
I read it to him. He was quiet for a moment. I heard him typing. Then he stopped.
“Claire, where did you get this?”
“Daniel’s mother. She accused me of stealing. But the money went into this account. Daniel’s name is on it.”
“Claire, this account is connected to a bigger network. I’ve seen it before. It’s used for money laundering. There are at least a dozen other accounts tied to it. Some of them belong to people I recognize.”
“Who?”
He paused. “Your father-in-law. Daniel’s father. He’s not dead, Claire. He’s been running a fraud ring from a condo in Florida for the past six years.”
The room went silent.
Daniel’s mother stopped dialing. Her phone clattered to the floor.
Daniel stared at me. His face was white. His mouth was open.
“What?” he whispered.
