Her younger brother depended on her for transportation to medical appointments.

She could not afford to lose the work.

“She told me the statement was just to clear up confusion,” Paige said.

“But it says I verified your identity.”

“Did you?”

“I never spoke to you.”

I told her to keep the document and speak with an attorney or a worker assistance organization before signing anything.

“Will you tell Celeste I called?” she asked.

“Not without your permission, unless someone needs the information to prevent harm.”

She thanked me and ended the call.

I stood outside the depot watching a bus reverse toward the wash bay.

The great mystery had begun to look less like a brilliant conspiracy and more like the ordinary exploitation of people afraid to lose their jobs.

Priya contacted Paige through an independent attorney who agreed to advise her without involving me directly.

That mattered because Paige did not owe our family her job or her safety.

Two days later Paige provided a copy of the proposed statement and several invoices she believed were inaccurate.

The invoices came from Caldwell Educational Services and described consulting hours for music programs that had never occurred.

Some bore dates when the council office had been closed.

The accountant Julian recommended reviewed only the records voluntarily provided to him.

He explained that an invoice alone could not prove a service had not happened.

But if the organization was claiming reimbursement from restricted grants, it should be able to show the work, the approving authority, and the beneficiaries.

That created a path toward a proper review.

I sent a short letter to the council board asking it to preserve records and arrange an independent examination.

Priya checked the wording first.

She removed every adjective that did not help establish a fact.

The final letter was almost painfully calm.

Celeste responded by telling the board I was trying to ruin a charity because my daughter had lost a contest.

But Sophie’s contest had not been decided.

That distinction would eventually become important.

A man named Adrian Bell called on Saturday morning.

He said he had been the recording engineer for Celeste’s private studio for several years.

His name meant nothing to me until he mentioned the allegedly old piano file.

“I think I know where it came from,” he said.

We met at a coffee shop near the train station, where the windows shook whenever freight cars passed.

Adrian wore a faded band T-shirt and carried a laptop covered in stickers.