Mr. Bell cleared his throat. “Before we begin,” he said, “there are some identity concerns we need addressed.” Adrian’s expression didn’t change, but I felt his hand leave my chair. The man at the far end introduced himself as a forensic accountant working with my legal counsel. Adrian turned to me then, slow and careful, as if he had suddenly realized the room had changed shape around him. “Naomi,” he said, almost amused, “what is this? Did you contact them beforehand?” The door opened before I could answer. Rebecca walked in first.
Whatever else Adrian was, he was disciplined. But in that one instant, discipline failed him. The color drained from his face. He stood so abruptly his chair scraped across the floor. Rebecca did not sit. She placed a small stack of documents on the table—old incorporation records, property links, signature comparisons, photographs. Mr. Bell added the transfer papers Adrian had hoped I would sign to the pile and folded his hands. “Nothing moves today,” he said. “In fact, nothing moves again until the court says so.”