“He was master of control, Nathan,” I said softly. “But we are going to find the truth now.”

“We go to the estate,” Nathan said, his expression hardening. “Now.”

We left the corporate offices of the Whitmore Group and walked out into the chilly Manhattan afternoon.

The sky had turned a dark, heavy gray, and a cold drizzle was starting to fall.

The wind blew yellow autumn leaves across the wet pavement as we climbed into the back of Nathan’s car.

Mr. Hayes sat in the front passenger seat, his briefcase resting on his knees.

The drive through the city was silent, save for the rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers against the glass.

I stared out the window at the passing buildings, my fingers tightly gripping the small silver key in my coat pocket.

When the car finally pulled up to the historic Whitmore estate, the massive iron gates felt different.

They no longer looked like an imposing barrier designed to keep me out.

Instead, they looked like old iron that had lost its power.

We got out of the car, the gravel crunching loudly under our boots in the damp air.