Chapter 3

The gala had been Eleanor's idea.

Julian remembered that now, standing in the red light with his mother's confession ringing in his ears. She'd been the one who'd insisted on the event, who'd pushed for the Venice-themed decor, who'd chosen the date and the venue and the caterers. His father had never cared about charity fundraisers; he'd called them "tax theatre" and left the details to his wife.

But the foundation was real. The foundation had always been real.

"I don't understand," Julian said. His voice sounded small in the sealed room. "Father was... he was a businessman. He made deals. That's what he did. He made deals and people got rich."

"People got rich," Eleanor agreed. "And other people got dead."

The guests were silent now. They'd stopped trying to press against the doors, stopped trying to find a way out; they were listening instead, drawn into the story unfolding in front of them like something they'd paid to see.

"Your father had partners," Eleanor said. "Men who did business in places where the rule of law was a rumor. Men who moved goods and information and people across borders that were supposed to be closed. He laundered their money through the foundation, kept it clean, kept it moving. And when they needed someone to disappear, he knew who to call."

"Stop," Julian said.

"He never told you," Eleanor continued, and her voice was almost gentle now, almost kind, which was worse. "He never told anyone. That was the point. But the money had to go somewhere. It had to have a trail. And trails can be followed."

"Stop talking," Julian said.

"Your mother knew," Thomas said.