The library door creaked as the wind outside gathered strength.

Downstairs, the heavy front doors of the mansion groaned open.

The sound of footsteps echoed up the grand spiral staircase, moving closer to the library.

I stood beside the desk, holding the document that would change Chicago forever.

The door to the library began to swing wider, and a shadow fell across the threshold.

The shadow lengthened across the polished mahogany floor.

My grandfather, Elias Cross, stepped into the light of the library.

He wore a long, damp wool coat, and his silver hair was slicked back with rain.

Behind him walked Nathaniel Vale, carrying a battered leather briefcase.

Miranda shrank back against her desk, her fingers gripping the edge of the wood.

“Get out of my house,” Miranda whispered, though her voice lacked its usual force.

Elias did not stop until he was standing in the center of the Persian rug.

“This was never your house, Miranda,” Elias said, his voice deep and steady.

He looked at me, a brief, reassuring nod passing between us.

“Valerie, are you alright?” he asked.