The elevator chimed.

The doors slid open.

The elevator doors slid open.

The yellow beam of a heavy flashlight cut through the darkness of the lobby.

Behind the light stood Victor, my mother’s personal security chief.

His coat was wet from the Boston rain.

He did not step out of the elevator cabin.

He stood in the doorway, holding the door open with his elbow.

“Mr. Whitmore,” Victor called out into the dark office.

His voice was flat and professional.

“Your mother sent me to fetch you.”

I pressed my back against the drywall behind the reception desk.

Marcus was rigid beside me, holding the thick legal folders against his chest.

“Adrian,” Victor said, his flashlight sweeping over the leather chairs in the waiting area.

“She knows you are here.”

“She wants to resolve this before it reaches the press.”

I did not breathe.

The flashlight beam flickered across the wall just inches from my shoulder.

I reached out and gripped Marcus’s arm.

I pointed toward the heavy wooden door to our left.

It was the exit to the service stairwell.