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I look up at him. "See? This. Radiating."

"You're wearing my shirt."

I glance down at myself. "Focus."

"I am."

"On crime."

"I'm capable of managing two interests."

"Of course you are. God forbid efficiency suffer."

His mouth almost moves, but then he looks at the timeline. "What am I looking at?"

I show him the Petros-linked companies, the transfers, the clearing houses and, finally, the convergence. Adrianos listens without interrupting, which I've learned means he's taking me seriously enough to stop enjoying himself.

"They cleaned house," he says.

"No." I tap the screen. "That's what I thought. Closing channels, removing exposure, making sure Petros couldn't lead anyone anywhere useful. But look here."

I bring up the consolidated accounts. "They didn't destroy the money."

"They moved it."

"Yes."

"Difference?"

"Intent."

He folds his arms across his chest, and I hate when he does that without a shirt. It's manipulative architecture.

"If you're disposing of evidence," I continue, dragging my eyes back to the screen like a professional, "you scatter. You create distance. You break connections until tracing becomes economically stupid. This does the opposite."

"They consolidated."

"Exactly." I enlarge the timestamps. "And they began before Petros's death was public."

His face changes. Not much, because Adrianos's face has an extremely limited public budget, but I know it now. The stillness goes harder.

"How long before?"

"At least fourteen hours before the first report."

"He could've already been dead."

"Possible."

"Or they knew he would be."

"Also possible."

His jaw tightens. That answer bothers him more.

Good. It bothers me more too.

I rub my eyes, but Adrianos catches my wrist before my hand reaches the keyboard again.