Julian stood.
He'd been quiet through Gilbert's presentation—asking the right questions, not filling space. Now he reached beside his chair and lifted a roll of paper thick enough to hold its own shape.
"Sorry," he said. "This needed room."
Nate shifted glasses. Gilbert stacked the satellite images without being asked. Franz stayed where he was, close enough that Arianne could feel the warmth off his arm. Not pressing. Just there.
Julian unrolled the timeline across the table.
Color-coded. Years in pale bands. Events in darker ink. Financial movements in red that bled across the paper like something still open. It started before Arianne turned thirteen. Before her father's death.
She set her glass down. The sound was too loud.
