No one in the room spoke.

The phone vibrated against the polished wood of the desk, making a dull, buzzing sound.

Miranda stared at the screen as it lit up her pale face.

She did not reach out to answer it.

The buzzing stopped, leaving only the sound of the rain and our breathing.

Then, the heavy oak doors downstairs creaked open once more.

The sound of firm, measured footsteps began to echo up the grand marble staircase.

Elias turned his back to the window and walked toward the library doors.

The heavy brass handles turned from the outside before he could reach them.

The doors swung open, letting in a draft of cold, wet air from the grand hallway.

My grandfather stood straight, his shoulders square under his simple tweed coat.

Behind him came Nathaniel Vale, carrying a heavy leather briefcase that dripped with rainwater.

Two men in dark, identical suits followed them into the room.

They wore gold shields pinned to their lapels, their faces grim and wet from the storm.

“This is Investigator Vance and Investigator Miller from the state financial crimes division,” Elias said.