My parents called at 1 A.M. screaming, “Wire $20,000—your brother’s in the ER!” I asked one question… and they dodged it. So I said, “Call your favorite daughter,” hung up, and went back to sleep. The next morning… police were at my door.

Green’s eyes sharpened. “Good. That tells me this isn’t about your brother. It’s about controlling you.”

My mouth felt dry again, but it wasn’t fear this time. It was anger that had learned how to stand up straight.

Green slid my phone back across the table like it was a loaded object. “Reply like you’re cooperating, but ask for something they can’t resist giving. A full name. A branch. Anything that creates a trail.”

I swallowed. “What if they don’t answer?”

“They will,” she said. “Because people who rush you hate obstacles. They’ll try to bulldoze through.”

I typed:

I’m at the bank. They need the full name on the account to send the wire. What is it?

We waited.

Thirty seconds.

One minute.

Then the reply arrived like a slap.

Emily Wilson. Now send it.

For a second I couldn’t breathe.

Emily. My sister’s name. My mother’s baby. The one who never had to lie awake wondering how to make rent because someone else always smoothed things over.

Green didn’t look shocked. She looked satisfied, like the final puzzle piece had clicked into place.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “Now we have something.”

Ramirez leaned in, reading the screen. “That’s your sister’s full name.”