I rode the elevator up in silence, my anger building with every floor.

When the doors opened, a young man in a tailored suit was waiting.

“Mrs. Hayes, this way please,” he said, leading me down a carpeted hallway lined with modern art.

He opened a door to a private office with a sweeping view of the East River.

Thomas Sterling was sitting behind a glass desk, his silver hair perfectly coiffed.

He looked up as I entered, a practiced smile appearing on his face.

“Claire,” he said, rising and extending his hand. “This is a surprise. I didn’t expect to see you today.”

I did not shake his hand.

I walked over to the desk and stood opposite him.

“You are executing unauthorized transfers from the Hayes-Mercer Trust, Thomas,” I said, my voice deadpan.

The smile on his face faltered, replaced by a mask of polite concern.

“I am not sure what you mean,” he said, sitting back down. “All transactions processed today have been fully authorized by the primary trustee.”

“Preston is not the sole trustee,” I said. “And you know it.”