“But the secondary clause was never filed with the city.”

He looked directly at me, his eyes gleaming with a sudden, sharp malice.

“And according to that clause, the true owner of the Brindlewood land isn’t the Graves Group.”

“And it certainly isn’t me.”

Julian reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, which suddenly began to buzz, its screen lighting up the dark space between us.

He held the screen up, showing a scanned image of a signature at the bottom of an old document.

“Do you recognize this signature, Claire?” Julian asked.

I looked at the glowing screen, and the air left my lungs.

It was my own handwriting, from a life I thought I had buried forever.

My fingers went cold against my sides.

The blue ink on the screen was faded, but the cursive loops of my maiden name were unmistakable.

“I was twenty-two,” I said, my voice barely a whisper in the quiet lobby.

Julian lowered the phone, his thumb tapping the glass screen.

“A young secretary who signed as the sole trustee when the elder Graves wanted to shield the property,” Julian said.