The second discovery came from the brass key.
Nia had found it wrapped inside a small piece of blue cloth.
At first, I assumed it belonged to an old jewelry box.
Then I noticed a tiny metal tag attached to the ring.
STUDIO 14B.
My stomach tightened.
Claire had kept a private architectural studio inside a converted textile mill in Stamford.
She used it when she needed quiet.
It contained drafting tables, sketches, scale models, and records from preservation projects.
After she died, I'd kept the lease temporarily.
I couldn't bear the thought of strangers dismantling the space.
Eventually, I moved most of her personal belongings into storage.
But several locked cabinets remained.
Studio 14B.
Of course.
I remembered the narrow filing cabinet near her drafting desk.
The one she always kept locked.
I contacted Mara and Daniel before going anywhere.
The investigators arranged to examine the studio and its remaining contents through appropriate procedures.
I was present when they opened the cabinet.
For a moment, the room seemed frozen in time.
Claire's old drafting stool stood near the window.
A blue pencil rested beside a metal ruler.
A scale model of a historic train station occupied one corner.
And a photograph of Ethan and Nia hung above her desk.
My throat tightened.
I hadn't been inside for almost a year.
Mara gave me a moment.
Then the cabinet was opened.
Inside were three thick folders.
A small encrypted external drive.
Several printed contracts.
And a sealed envelope addressed to the independent accountant Claire had been planning to meet.
The documents were carefully organized.
Dated.
Labeled.
Cross-referenced.
Exactly the way Claire worked.
One folder was titled SOUTH HAVEN β PAYMENT DISCREPANCIES.
Another was marked ALDER POINT β BENEFICIAL OWNERSHIP QUESTIONS.
The third contained correspondence involving Graham Price, Vanessa Hale, and several members of the nonprofit's financial administration team.
Vanessa's maiden name was Hale.
Alder Point's registered ownership records referred to a holding company associated with her family.
That connection alone wasn't proof of fraud.
But Claire had highlighted it repeatedly.
Inside the final envelope was a handwritten note.
I have not authorized the transfer of charitable funds to an entity controlled by people responsible for approving those same payments.
I stared at the sentence.
Then looked toward the folders.
Claire hadn't merely suspected sloppy accounting.