Frost comes to stand across from me, his presence solid and somehow steadying. He doesn't touch the papers, just looks.
"Four hundred thousand dollars." My finger traces the amount. "Life insurance and the sale of the family property in Georgia. She set up the trust so Tyler and I would have security."
"Both signatures required." He points to the bottom of the document without touching it.
"Yes. We agreed years ago to keep it untouched. Emergency fund only." I look up at him, needing him to understand. "Our mother wanted us to have something she never had. Stability. Safety. We weren't supposed to touch it unless we absolutely needed it."
"When did the trust become accessible?"
"When Tyler turned twenty-five. He's twenty-seven now, so it's been available for two years."
"Did he ever ask to access it?"
My stomach clenches. "A few times. Said we should invest it, or split it, or—" I stop. "I always said no. It felt wrong. Like spending it would be losing the last pieceof her."
Frost is watching me with those steady eyes, and I can see him processing, analyzing, putting pieces together I'm not ready to see.
"But why would the cartel care about this?" I press my hands flat on the table. "Tyler said they think Mother left us something valuable. Something hidden. That they were interrogating him about where it is. But this trust fund isn't hidden. It's legal. Documented. We both know about it."
"What exactly did Tyler tell you?" His voice is careful now. Too careful.
I think back to two days ago—the last time they let me see Tyler. Five minutes. He had a bruise on his face, and his lip was split. He looked terrified.
"He said the cartel thinks Mother had something. Money, documents, or a property deed. Something she never told us about." The memory makes my chest tight. "He said they'd been questioning him for days. That he didn't know anything, but they didn't believe him. He said if I could just sign the trust documents, it would show cooperation. Buy us time. That we'd figure out a way to escape together."
"Did you see anyone hurt him?"
The question stops me cold. "What?"
"When you saw Tyler. Did you actually see anyone hit him? Threaten him?"
I open my mouth. Close it. Think. "No. They brought him to the room alone. He had the bruise and the split lip, but I didn't—they kept us separated. I just assumed?—"
"How long has Tyler lived in Tucson?"
The subject change throws me. "Three years. Why?"
"What does he do for work?"
"Logistics coordinator for a shipping company. Why are you asking about Tyler's job?"
"Does he gamble?"
My defensiveness flares hot and immediate. "No. Tyler doesn't—what does this have to do with anything?"
"Money problems? Debt?"
"No." But even as I say it, doubt creeps in. "I mean, I don't think so. He never mentioned?—"
"New car recently?" Frost's questions come faster now, precise and surgical. "Nice apartment? Always seems to have cash?"
I think about Tyler's Tesla. His downtown loft with the view. The way he always picked up the check when we got dinner, waving off my attempts to split it.
"He said he got promoted," I hear myself say. "Said the company was doing well and he was moving up."
Frost pulls out a phone—not the one I saw him use before, something different. "I need to make a call."
"To who?"
