My name is Penelope Sinclair, and at thirty-four, I had built what I thought was an unshakeable life. As a forensic accountant specializing in corporate fraud, I had learned to read between the lines of balance sheets, to find the truth hidden beneath layers of creative bookkeeping, and to trust numbers more than words. My work had taught me that people lie, but data doesn’t—a lesson that would prove both professionally invaluable and personally devastating.
I lived alone in a converted warehouse loft in Chicago, surrounded by the tools of my trade: multiple monitors, filing systems that could rival any law enforcement agency, and a coffee machine that had been my most reliable companion through countless late-night investigations. My social life was minimal but satisfying—a small circle of colleagues who understood that canceling dinner plans to trace suspicious wire transfers was not antisocial behavior but dedication to craft. The phone call that would unravel everything I thought I knew about my family came on a Tuesday morning in October, while I was reviewing financial records for a class-action lawsuit against a pharmaceutical company. Continue reading…
