“Let me review the board’s inventory list tonight,” I said. “I will call you in the morning.”

“Get some rest,” Julian said. “The auction is scheduled for next Tuesday.”

He hung up, and the line went silent.

I stood under the flickering yellow light of the pier’s lamp post.

The heavy paper of the board’s letter crinkled as I folded it back into the envelope.

Suddenly, the phone screen lit up again.

The caller ID showed an unlisted Boston number, but I recognized the sequence.

It was Adrian’s private line.

I pressed the button and listened, not saying a word.

“Claire,” his voice came through the speaker, thin and ragged.

He sounded like a man who had not slept in days.

“Adrian,” I said.

“You did this,” he whispered. “You talked to the board. You showed them those old design drafts from the San Francisco project.”

“The board made their own decision based on the court’s findings,” I said.

“They threw me out of my own office, Claire,” he said, his voice rising. “Security escorted me to the street. Serena is gone. She took her things and left this morning.”