He placed it on the desk between us.

It was the key to the private quarters on the third floor, a place where no staff was allowed.

“You and Emma are moving upstairs,” he said.

“Starting tonight.”

My breath caught in my throat.

“What do you mean?”

“You are under my personal protection now, Claire,” he said.

Before I could answer, the library phone began to ring.

The sharp, shrill sound pierced the quiet of the room.

Julian did not answer it immediately.

He stared at the flashing red light on the console.

Then, the heavy library door began to swing open.

The door swung open fully.

It was Margaret Bell.

She held Emma in her arms, my daughter’s face pressed warm and sleeping against her shoulder.

Emma’s favorite pink blanket trailed on the Persian rug, the edge of it catching on the dark wood of the doorframe.

Margaret’s stern face was paler than usual, her mouth set in a tight, thin line.

“The gates,” Margaret said, her voice a low, raspy whisper. “There are three cars parked just outside the main entrance, Mr. Mercer.”