A single brass desk lamp cast a pale yellow circle over a Persian rug.

Alexander was on his knees in the corner, behind a heavy mahogany desk.

He had pushed aside a painting of a bleak winter landscape, revealing a matte-black wall safe.

“Alexander, look at this,” I said, my voice cracking.

He turned his head, his brow furrowed with intense concentration.

I handed him the phone.

He took it, his wet fingers smudging the screen as he read the text from his mother.

His jaw clenched so hard the muscles in his cheek twitched.

“She’s bluffing about the police,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction.

“Is she?” I asked, looking back toward the dark hallway. “She has the resources to make any story look true.”

“She doesn’t want the police here any more than we do,” he said, handing the phone back to me. “A public scandal ruins the stock price. She wants to scare us.”

Noah crept closer to my side, clutching the hem of my damp sweater.

“Who is outside, Mommy?” he whispered.