The screen at the head of the conference room was no longer filled with spreadsheets. It was a web, a complex diagram of lines and boxes showing the flow of money out from The Finch Foundation.
At the center was Vanguard Strategic Solutions.
“It’s a front, sir,” the lead accountant confirmed, pointing a laser at the screen. “Vanguard has no employees and no physical office. It exists only to receive payments and issue subcontracts.”
The web radiated outward. Money from the foundation went to Vanguard, which then paid three smaller, equally opaque shell corporations.
“It’s a classic laundering technique,” the accountant explained. “Wash the money through enough layers and it becomes difficult to trace.”
But they had traced it. Caspian watched as the analyst manipulated the diagram, showing how funds from all three secondary shells were being funneled into a single destination. A final holding company.
The name appeared in a bold, black box at the end of the chain.
IF Holdings.
Caspian felt a chill spread through him, a cold dread that had nothing to do with the room’s air conditioning.
IF.
Isolde Finch.
The sheer, blinding arrogance of it. It was a classic narcissist’s mistake, a need to sign her work, even a crime. She believed no one would ever dare to look this closely. She believed he would protect her forever. The thought was acid in his throat.
“We have her,” Caspian said, his voice flat.
“Not yet,” the accountant countered, his expression grim. “IF Holdings is registered in a state with some of the strictest corporate privacy laws in the country. There are layers of legal firewalls. Proving she’s the beneficial owner through legal channels could take months. Maybe longer.”
Months. They didn’t have months. Every day that passed was another day Lyra endured the public fallout of his blindness.
They had followed the trail to her door, but it was locked and barred by a wall of lawyers and legislation. They were so close, yet completely blocked.
The pressure in the room became immense.
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