Through the glass panels, I could see them gathered around the long table.

Graham sat at the end of the mahogany table, adjusting his gold watch with nervous, jerky movements.

Margaret sat next to him, her posture stiff, her fingers tracing the edge of her teacup.

Vance Harrison stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the rainy skyline.

Two other board members, elderly men who had long ceased to ask questions, sat quietly in the corner.

Sloane was not there, but her purse lay on a chair in the corner of the room.

I pushed the door open.

The latch clicked, and every head in the room turned toward us.

“You’re late, Claire,” Graham said, his voice smooth and empty. “We were just about to vote on the restructuring of the legacy accounts.”

“The meeting is adjourned before it begins,” Rachel said, stepping forward.

She placed her leather briefcase on the table with a soft thud.

“On what grounds?” Margaret asked, her voice sharp as broken glass.

“On the grounds of total lack of authority,” I said.