Ethan Thornton was thinner than he had been in the photographs, his charcoal suit hanging slightly loose on his broad shoulders.

His face was pale, his cheekbones sharp, but his dark eyes were bright and entirely focused.

He did not use a cane.

He walked with a slow, deliberate stride, his hand resting lightly on the forearm of a security guard.

Jason let out a low, strangled sound in the back of his throat.

The papers in his hand slipped from his fingers, scattering across the polished mahogany table.

“Ethan,” Jason whispered, his face turning the color of wet chalk.

Ethan stopped at the edge of the rug, his gaze fixing on his cousin.

“You look disappointed, Jason,” Ethan said.

His voice was raspy, dry from months of disuse, but it carried a quiet strength that filled the room.

My father shrank back against the bookshelf, his eyes darting between Ethan and the guards.

Vivian stopped beside her grandson, her hand tightening on her cane.

“The board meeting is officially over,” Vivian announced, her voice echoing in the rafters.