Chapter 8

The phone was a small silver thing, wedged between the shattered crystal shards and the base of the banquet table, where it had been hidden by the fall of the champagne tower. Thomas knelt beside it, his knees popping against the marble floor, and looked at it without touching it.

"Forensics will want to bag it," he said.

The young woman uniformed at his side nodded. "They're on their way. But Director—the guest was specific. She said she saw it fall. She said someone planted it there before the doors closed."

Thomas studied the phone. It was small, expensive, the kind of device you'd expect to see in a ballroom full of aristocrats. But there was nothing else remarkable about it. No case, no stickers, no identifying marks.

"Did she say who planted it?"

"No," the young woman said. "She said it happened while everyone was watching the girl being dragged. She said the man who placed it was standing by the table the whole time. She said she didn't recognize him."

Thomas reached out and carefully lifted the phone, holding it by the edges. The screen was black. He pressed the power button, and the screen flickered to life.

There was no lock screen.

The first thing he saw was a photo—a man in his sixties, grey-haired, heavy-jowled, wearing a tuxedo.

Thomas recognized him.

"Director?" the young woman asked.

Thomas didn't answer. He swiped through the phone's files, and his eyebrows rose.

The phone contained documents. Hundreds of documents, it seemed, all of them photographed in what looked like a dim office. Receipts. Transfer orders. Wire instructions. Names. Dates. Amounts.

The records of the foundation's illegal transfers.

"What is it?" the young woman asked.

Thomas looked up at her, and his face was unreadable.