“Nora,” Philip said, his face turning pale under the bright gallery lights.

“You shouldn’t be up here right now.”

“This is my house,” I said.

“Actually, it belongs to the Mercer family trust,” Philip said, trying to steady his shaking voice.

He looked down at his clipboard, avoiding my direct gaze.

“Grant authorized the relocation of these pieces for a private exhibition.”

“An exhibition in Switzerland?” Lena asked, stepping forward from behind me.

She pulled a folded document from her leather bag.

“I am Lena Vance, representing Whitaker Family Capital.”

“I know who you are,” Philip said, glancing toward the door.

“Then you know that any movement of assets from this estate is a violation of a court order,” Lena said.

A floorboard creaked behind us in the dark corridor.

I turned to see Grant standing in the doorway.

His hair was disheveled, and his silk tie was loosened at his collar.

He smelled of scotch and damp wool from the storm outside.

“What is going on here?” Grant demanded, his eyes darting between me and Lena.

“I told you to have this crate loaded twenty minutes ago, Philip.”