Vincent led me down a wide, carpeted hallway lined with oil paintings of stormy seas.

We entered a spacious study at the end of the hall.

A fire crackled in a massive stone hearth, throwing warm orange light across the room.

Tall bookshelves covered the walls from floor to ceiling, packed with old leather-bound volumes.

Vincent walked over to a wet bar in the corner.

“You need something to warm you up,” he said, pouring amber liquid into two crystal glasses.

He handed me one of the glasses.

I took a sip of the bourbon, gasping slightly as the heat bloomed in my chest.

Vincent walked over to his massive mahogany desk and sat down in a leather chair.

He placed the faded photograph he had taken from the lounge right in the center of the dark wood.

“Sit down, Clara,” he said, pointing to the armchair opposite him.

I sat, holding the crystal glass with both hands to keep them from shaking.

I stared at the little girl in the photograph, and then at the tall man next to her.