“It has to be,” I said, though my heart was hammering violently against my ribs.

“My mother,” Nathan said, his voice rising in panic.

He grabbed his phone from the desk, his fingers fumbling with the screen.

Before he could dial, the heavy oak door of the study clicked open.

Eleanor stood in the doorway.

She wore a tailored gray coat, her silver hair perfectly coiffed despite the wind outside.

She smelled of expensive French perfume and damp rain.

“You didn’t stay in New York,” Nathan said, his hand dropping slowly to his side.

“I wanted to be here when you received your gift,” Eleanor said.

She stepped into the room, her high heels clicking softly on the polished hardwood floor.

She did not look at me.

Her eyes were fixed entirely on her son, sharp and calculating.

“Is this true?” Nathan asked, holding up the paper.

His knuckles were white, his arm shaking.

“Every word of it,” Eleanor said.

She walked over to the leather armchair by the cold fireplace and sat down, smoothing her skirt.

“Arthur had a weakness for the help, even back then,” she said coldly.