“There is one more thing, Miranda,” the attorney said.

He pointed to a signature at the bottom of a transfer slip.

“This is not Arthur’s signature,” Nathaniel said. “And it is not yours.”

Miranda’s face drained of what little color she had left.

“Whose signature is it?” I asked, looking at the paper.

Nathaniel looked up from the documents, his eyes resting on the doorway behind Elias.

Another shadow had appeared in the hallway, silhouetted against the dim sconce light.

The front doors downstairs had opened again, but this time, no one had heard them over the storm.

The new figure stepped into the library, shaking the rain from his coat.

I stared at the face of the man who had just entered, and the breath caught in my throat.

The man was Thomas Bennett.

He was the former vice president of the Sterling Trust, retired now for nearly a decade.

I recognized him from the old newspaper clippings my grandfather kept in his wooden trunk.

His hair was entirely white now, plastered to his forehead by the Chicago rain.