I looked at her, seeing her not just as my wife, but as a piece of a puzzle my mother had put together.

My phone on the desk suddenly buzzed, the screen lighting up with a new email notification.

I looked down at the glowing screen of my phone.

The email was from Marcus Vance, my personal attorney.

The subject line read: *Mercer’s Medical Records – Preliminary Search.*

“Adrian?” Celeste asked again, her voice tighter this time. “What is going on?”

“Nothing for you to worry about tonight,” I said.

I slid the phone into my pocket and walked past her toward the hallway.

“I need to get some sleep,” I said. “I have a long day tomorrow.”

She didn’t follow me up the stairs, but I felt her eyes on my back the entire way.

The next morning, the Boston sky was the color of wet asphalt.

A cold drizzle smeared against the windshield of my car as I drove toward the Beacon Hill estate.

The iron gates of the Whitmore family home opened slowly, creaking against the damp air.