A pile of dry birch logs sat next to it.

Within ten minutes, I had a small, crackling fire going.

We wrapped ourselves in some old canvas sails we found on a workbench.

The warmth slowly returned to my limbs, bringing a sharp, stinging pain.

“We can’t run forever,” Alexander said, staring at the flames. “Julian has the resources of the entire company.”

“He has the money because he has the identity,” I said.

“The board believes he is me,” Alexander said. “The legal documents all bear my signature.”

“Then we change the documents,” I said.

He looked at me, his brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“The Whitmore family trust,” I said. “The original deed from 1994.”

“It’s locked in the vault at the corporate headquarters,” he said.

“Julian has the physical copy,” I said. “But he doesn’t know we have the ability to make another.”

I opened my leather satchel, which I had managed to grab before we fled.

Inside were my restoration tools: fine-tipped steel scalpels, a small bottle of oak gall ink, and several sheets of heavy, cotton-fiber rag paper I used for backing old sketches.