And I had to find a way to make Maren trust me again, after all the pain my family had caused her.

I pulled into the parking garage of my office building and took the private elevator to the executive suite.

The receptionist looked up as I walked past, her expression tense.

“Mr. Whitmore,” she said, standing up quickly. “There is someone waiting in your office.”

“Who is it?” I asked, stopping near the double doors.

“She didn’t have an appointment,” the receptionist whispered. “But she said it was urgent.”

I pushed the heavy glass door open and stepped inside.

Standing by the window, looking out over the misty Boston harbor, was Celeste.

On my desk lay an open manila folder that I had left locked in my drawer.

She turned slowly, her manicured fingers resting on the edge of the mahogany desk.

Her eyes met mine, cold and calculating.

“You should keep your personal files locked more securely, Adrian,” she said.

I walked past her and closed the folder with a firm slap.

It was a copy of my old medical chart from Dr. Mercer’s clinic.