I walked over and pulled the dusty plastic away.

It was my mother’s original oil portrait, the one Grant had ordered removed from the lobby the day he took office.

Her painted eyes looked back at me, warm and resolute, framed by the dark, polished wood.

The canvas was untouched by the smoke, preserved in its plastic shield.

“We need to get this out of here,” I said, touching the edge of the frame.

“We’ll move it upstairs,” Marcus said softly. “To your new office.”

“Not my office,” I said. “An independent office. We are going to restructure the foundation, Marcus. No more family control.”

“That is a wise decision,” Marcus said, a small smile appearing on his tired face.

My phone vibrated again in my hand.

I looked down, expecting another emergency alert or a message from the police.

Instead, the screen displayed an incoming call from an unknown, unlisted number.

My thumb hovered over the green button as the rain continued to beat against the high windows above.

I pressed the phone to my ear.

“Emma Caldwell,” I said.