An alert icon was flashing on the screen, indicating an unauthorized access attempt on my personal service record from an IP address registered to my father’s estate.

I stared at the glowing screen, the cold rain dripping from the brim of my hat.

“Evelyn?” Nathan asked, his voice tense. “What is it?”

“Nothing that concerns you,” I said, sliding the phone back into my pocket.

I looked at the wet gravel near his polished shoes.

“Go back inside, Nathan.”

“We aren’t done talking about the file,” he said, his shoulders hunching against the rain.

“Yes, we are.”

I walked past him, my heels clicking on the wet stone path toward the side entrance of the conservatory.

The warm, humid air of the greenhouse hit me first, smelling of damp soil and expensive orchids.

Nathan followed me, his breathing heavy and uneven behind me.

We entered the main drawing room through the glass French doors.

My father sat in his high-backed leather chair by the fireplace, holding a glass of amber scotch.

Caroline was standing near the mantel, her fingers tracing the edge of an antique silver vase.