I had seen it in old photographs, the ones I had burned years ago to forget.

The man reached for the door handle.

His eyes locked onto mine through the glass.

He raised a hand and pressed a single finger to the cold window.

A gold signet ring on his finger caught the light, bearing the crest of the Dunleavy family.

But this man was not Arthur.

He was younger, taller, and his eyes held a cold, familiar malice.

The door began to slide open with a soft, mechanical hiss.

The cold air rushed inside, carrying the smell of wet asphalt and ozone.

The man stepped into the lobby, his boots clicking sharply on the stone.

“Am I too late for the meeting?” he asked, his voice smooth and empty of emotion.

Nathaniel stiffened beside me, his jaw clenching.

“Who are you?” Nathaniel asked.

The man smiled, but his eyes remained dead.

“I am Julian Dunleavy,” he said.

“And I believe my uncle left some unfinished business here.”

He looked down at the paper still clutched in my hand.

“Starting with that letter,” he added.