“Real estate and speculative tech,” Marcus said, tapping his dry-erase marker against a cluster of sticky notes. “Your husband had a bad habit of thinking he was Warren Buffett. When his angel investments in crypto-mining and synthetic biology went belly-up in late twenty-two, he started raiding Lawson Holdings’ operating cash flow to cover his margin calls. That’s when the gun came out of the safe, Harper. He wasn’t just worried you’d divorce him and take the majority stake. He was terrified you’d look at the balance sheets and realize the company was on the brink of insolvency.”
I felt a cold prickle along the back of my neck. “Insolvent? Lawson Holdings? My father left fifty million in liquid reserves.”
“And Preston burned through forty-two of it in three years,” Marcus said gently. “Between his lifestyle, the shell companies, and the bad bets, your family’s legacy was six months away from hitting a wall. If you hadn’t found that camera, if you hadn’t called Raymond… you would have walked into an empty vault by next winter.”
