Grant was standing near the whiteboard at the end of the long mahogany table, a black marker in his hand.

Vanessa Hart sat to his right, her laptop open, her fingers frozen over the keyboard.

Helen Caldwell sat next to her, her face hardening the moment she saw Marcus and me enter.

“Marcus,” Grant said, his voice tight as he placed the marker on the table. “This is a closed executive session of the board.”

“Not anymore, Grant,” Marcus said, his voice calm and steady.

Marcus walked to the center of the room and placed his briefcase on the polished wood.

“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” Helen asked, leaning forward and crossing her manicured hands.

“I am here in my capacity as the legal representative of the Whitaker estate,” Marcus said.

Lorna, sitting near the window, watched us with a quiet, sharp intensity.

Arthur Bell adjusted his reading glasses, looking confused. “Marcus, we were just about to vote on a standard capital reallocation to streamline our operations.”

“There is nothing standard about what you are doing today,” Marcus replied.