“If you take one more step, Nathan,” Richard said, his voice trembling but cold.

“I will burn every single page.”

He held the lighter close to the edge of the papers in his hand, his thumb resting on the metal wheel.

I held my breath.

The tiny yellow flame danced, casting long, trembling shadows across the steel filing cabinets.

Nathan took a half-step forward, his boots scraping against the cold stone.

“Don’t,” I whispered, reaching out to catch Nathan’s sleeve.

My fingers brushed the hard plastic of the keycard still gripped in my palm.

It felt incredibly heavy.

Just three hours ago, I had been standing in the cold, gray drizzle outside the side entrance of the Whitmore Group headquarters.

Mr. Hayes had stepped out of the shadows of the concrete pillar, his trench coat damp, his collar turned up against the wind.

He had looked older than his years, the weight of a dozen family secrets sagging in the lines around his eyes.

“Emily,” he had said, his voice barely louder than the hum of the nearby street sweepers.