The screen lit up with the name of Arthur Vance’s agency, but the secondary line showed the caller ID of Arthur Sterling’s former chief financial officer, Thomas Vance.

No one reached for the receiver.

The silence in the library was heavy, smelling of old leather, paper, and the sharp scent of Miranda’s expensive perfume.

Outside, the wind from Lake Michigan battered the tall arched windows, making the heavy glass rattle in its lead frames.

“Answer it, Mother,” Julian said.

His voice was flat, stripped of the warmth he usually carried.

Miranda did not look at him.

Her eyes remained fixed on the small brass key resting inches from the telephone.

“It is a business matter,” she said, her chin rising. “It can wait until the morning.”

“The chief financial officer does not call your personal line at ten o’clock on a Saturday night for routine business,” Julian said.

He stepped closer to the desk, his leather shoes making no sound on the thick Persian rug.

Investigator Vance took a step forward as well, his gloved hand resting near his notebook.