He walked in, his expensive leather shoes clicking on the raw wood floor.

He didn’t look around with curiosity or judgment.

He went straight to the crate, using a crowbar from my workbench to pry the lid open with practiced, careful movements.

We worked in silence for ten minutes.

He lifted the heavy frame with ease, his biceps straining against the fabric of his white dress shirt.

I guided the top edge of the canvas into the wooden clamp of the heavy easel, tightening the brass screws.

“It is a beautiful piece,” he said, stepping back to admire the yellowed landscape.

“It will be,” I said, “once I get the old varnish off.”

“I will leave you to it,” he said, wiping his dusty hands on a rag from the table.

He walked back toward the door, stopping near the threshold.

“I am filing the final disclosure documents tomorrow,” he said. “The assets are being frozen.”

“What does Harrison say about this?” I asked.

Jonathan’s face darkened at the mention of his uncle.

“Harrison is quiet,” Jonathan said. “That is when he is most dangerous.”