“Where is your client, Martin?” Lydia asked.

“He’s on his way,” Martin said. “He was… delayed.”

“We have the court order to inspect unit 402,” Lydia said, sliding a document across the counter.

The clerk behind the desk, a young man with a brass name tag, looked at the paper and then at us.

“Sure,” the clerk said. “I’ll need to cut the lock if you don’t have the key.”

“We have the key,” a voice said from the doorway.

I turned around.

Julian stood there.

He looked like a shadow of the man who had ruled the boardroom in Manhattan.

His expensive suit was rumpled, his tie slightly crooked.

His eyes were bloodshot, surrounded by dark, bruised circles.

He looked at me, his gaze lingering on my face.

“Elena,” he said, his voice raspy.

I didn’t answer.

I walked past him, out into the cold corridor of the storage facility.

The air inside smelled of dust and damp cardboard.

We walked down the long, fluorescent-lit hallway, our footsteps echoing against the metal doors.

We stopped at unit 402.

Julian reached into his pocket and pulled out the rusted key.