“Are you sure about this, Grace?” I asked. “If Margaret backs Adrian, we are finished.”

“Margaret backs money and power, Vivian,” Grace said, folding the paper and sliding it into an envelope. “Adrian is risking both for a personal grudge.”

She picked up her desk phone and dialed a number she seemed to know by heart.

I watched her as she spoke in low, urgent tones to her courier service, arranging for immediate delivery to the Whitmore estate.

The rain began to patter against the windowpane, a steady, rhythmic sound that matched the pounding of my heart.

I looked back down at the street.

The black SUV was still there, its wipers clearing the windshield at slow intervals.

Twenty minutes passed in agonizing silence as Grace finalized the documents.

I sat on the small sofa, my hands clamped between my knees to stop their shaking.

“It’s done,” Grace said finally, setting her pen down with a decisive click. “The courier has the envelope.”

“And now we wait?” I asked.

“Now we wait,” she replied.

An hour bled into two.