“Let them fight,” Elias said.

“We have the truth.”

I looked down at the driveway.

A single black car had just pulled up to the gates.

It was not a police car.

It was a sleek, unmarked town car.

A man got out of the passenger side.

He was wearing a long wool coat, his collar turned up against the wind.

He looked up at the third-floor window.

Even from this distance, I recognized the shape of his face.

It was Arthur Sterling’s younger brother, Thomas.

The one who had disappeared to Europe ten years ago.

The one who was supposed to be dead.

He began to walk toward the front doors.

My heart gave a sudden, sharp thud against my ribs.

“Julian,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

“Look.”

Julian came to the window, his eyes following my gaze.

His breath caught in his throat.

“Uncle Thomas?” he whispered.

The doorbell downstairs began to ring, its deep, resonant tone echoing up through the empty mansion.

The heavy brass bell echoed through the high ceilings of the foyer.

Julian and I exchanged a long look.