Her reflection in the glass looked frail, despite her expensive wool suit.

“He thought he could lock me out,” she murmured. “He thought I would protect him at any cost.”

“Are you going to?” I asked.

She did not turn around immediately.

When she did, her eyes were completely clear, devoid of any motherly warmth.

“The Whitmore name survived the depression, two world wars, and three hostile takeovers,” she said.

She walked back to her desk and picked up her personal mobile phone.

“It will survive my son’s greed,” she said.

She tapped the screen and selected a contact.

“This is Margaret Whitmore,” she said when the call connected. “I need to speak with Assistant Director Vance.”

She paused, her eyes locking onto mine.

“It concerns a matter of grand larceny and corporate fraud,” she said. “Yes. It is urgent.”

I felt a chill run down my spine as she spoke.

She was turning him in.

She was sacrificing her only son to save the empire she had spent her life building.

Grace caught my eye and gave a very slight, satisfied nod.