I had bought a new dress for today.

It was a simple, dark navy wool, tailored and conservative.

It was the kind of dress Margaret Whitmore would wear to a funeral.

By nine-thirty, we were standing in the lobby of the Whitmore Tower on Madison Avenue.

The lobby was a cavern of white marble and glass, filled with security guards and frantic-looking employees.

Flashbulbs were going off outside the revolving doors.

Reporters were shouting questions at anyone who looked like an executive.

“Vivian,” Grace said, her hand touching my elbow.

“This is it.”

We walked toward the private elevator bank.

The security guard looked at my ID, then at the name on his clipboard.

“Mrs. Whitmore?” he asked, his voice hesitant.

“Yes,” I said.

He scanned his keycard, and the elevator doors slid open.

The ride to the forty-second floor was silent and fast.

My ears popped as the indicator lights blinked upward.

When the doors opened, the noise of the executive suite hit us immediately.

Phones were ringing at every desk.

Assistant attorneys were rushing down the hallways with stacks of blue-backed legal documents.