We entered the third-floor office, a small room with a low ceiling and a single window.

Julian turned on the desk lamp, casting a warm light over the leather chairs.

Nathaniel laid the folder on the desk.

“This is the original agreement from 1952,” he said, opening the cover.

“Arthur Sterling and Elias Cross.”

“Fifty-fifty,” Elias said, his voice soft.

“Until Arthur’s father forced my family out.”

“And the revision in 1984,” Nathaniel said, turning the page.

“Arthur tried to correct it before he died.”

“But Miranda intercepted the signed copy,” I said.

“She did,” Nathaniel said.

“She kept it in her private safe in the library.”

“The one we just opened,” Julian said.

He looked at the papers, his fingers tracing the faded signatures.

“My mother knew about this for decades.”

“She did,” Elias said.

“She paid Nathaniel’s predecessor to keep quiet.”

“And when he died, she tried to buy me,” Nathaniel said.

“But I could not do it.”

He looked at me, a faint smile on his lips.

“I am glad you found me, Valerie.”

“Thank you, Nathaniel,” I said.