My grandfather, Elias, took a step toward me, his hand resting on the cane he had carried for years.

“Do not keep them waiting, Valerie,” Elias said.

I walked to the French doors, my shoes clicking softly on the polished hardwood floor.

I reached out and turned the heavy brass latch.

The cold air hit me first, smelling of wet stone and the dark water of Lake Michigan.

The wind pushed the heavy doors open, splashing rain across the threshold.

The three figures on the wet terrace did not move.

The man in the center wore a long, dark overcoat that was soaked at the shoulders.

He pulled back his hood, revealing gray hair cropped close to his skull.

“Valerie Cross,” he said.

His voice was quiet, but it carried over the sound of the rain.

“Yes,” I said.

“I am Marcus Vance,” the man said.

“We represent the oversight committee of the Sterling Trust.”

“The Syndicate,” Nathaniel Vale said, stepping up behind me.

Marcus Vance nodded once, his eyes moving past me to the old attorney.

“Nathaniel,” Marcus said.

“You have been quiet for a long time.”