Nathaniel took a long, deep breath.

He turned back to Arthur, his face hardening into granite.

“Marcus,” Nathaniel said.

“Call the police.”

“And tell them we have twelve years of grand theft, extortion, and fraud to report.”

Arthur didn’t run.

He simply sank onto the marble bench, his briefcase slipping from his lap and hitting the floor with a heavy thud.

The leather latches popped open, and dozens of papers spilled out across the polished stone.

Among them was a small, faded photograph.

I looked down at it.

It was a picture of me, taken twelve years ago, standing outside the Graves estate.

And on the back, written in thick black ink, was a single word.

*Found.*

Before I could reach down to pick it up, the glass doors behind us began to slide open.

The blue and red lights of a police cruiser flashed against the wet pavement outside.

But it wasn’t the police who stepped through the doors first.

It was a older man in a long gray overcoat.

He carried a silver-tipped cane, and his face was lined with age and authority.