Violet shook her head at him. “Is this more of that kidney BS? I already told McKenna, my dad would never extort an organ from someone, okay? Besides, you could easily just sue him to establish paternity and get him to pay child support, which I’m sure he knows.”

Violet stepped out from behind the desk and took a few steps in Trey’s direction, and he swiveled to prevent her from grabbing the laptop away from him, assuming that was her intention. “It’s right here. An invoice from your father’s law firm detailing costs for preparing a contract for me, Trey Emory. Fees for in-person delivery with the address of my school, and then another pass-through fee described simply as ‘payment for services rendered,’ ” Trey informed us. “Fifteen thousand dollars in ‘services.’ ”

Despite the fact that Trey sounded convinced he’d discovered something important, I had started tuning out both him and Violet. My scalp had broken into a rage of tingles, and I was getting the distinct sense that Jennie wanted me to inspect Mr. Simmons’s bookshelves on the other side of the room.

Violet rolled her eyes. “That’s not proof of anything! He had to pay his attorney to draft up whatever contract he gave you to accept your half of the inheritance.”

Trey looked over at me in confusion, and from where I stood in front of the bookshelf, I shrugged. Distractedly, I told him, “She knows about the contract.” In front of me, the shelves were lined with finance journals and nonfiction hardcover titles about foreign investment strategy. What could Jennie have possibly wanted me to notice? I’d left my phone on the kitchen table with the mason jar, and considered running back downstairs to grab both.

Behind me, Violet and Trey continued bickering. “Great,” Trey snapped in my direction. “Did you tell her about how he paid one of the administrators at my school to arrange for me to be beaten up?”

“That’s a little far-fetched,” Violet was shouting at Trey. “Maybe someone just beat you up at your school because you were asking for it with your charming personality.”

I did my best to block the two of them out. “What is it? What do you want me to see?” I asked Jennie aloud in a tiny voice. And then, as if she’d physically redirected my eyes upward, I noticed a leather-bound Bible on the top shelf. Why on earth would a businessman who didn’t regularly go to church have a Bible in his office?

“You guys,” I said loudly enough to interrupt them. “Look.”

I reached for the Bible and pulled it off the shelf, already suspecting what I’d find inside. Sure enough, a folded piece of paper was jammed into the middle, and when I opened it, my pulse sped up as if I were being chased. It was a handwritten note on a sheet of personal stationery, which had yellowed with age. At the top was printed FR. JAMES G. FAHEY.