From the hallway behind the elevator, a strange, tinny sound began to echo.

It was a voice, distorted by a small speaker, but unmistakable.

It was Daniel’s voice.

*“The regulators won’t look at the shipping manifests if the port authority is already satisfied,”* the recording played.

The sound was coming from Marcus Vance’s phone.

Marcus held the device in his palm, his thumb trembling as he stared at the screen.

The female journalist beside him raised her camera, pointing the lens directly at Daniel.

“Mr. Hayes,” she said, her voice loud in the cavernous room. “Can you confirm the authenticity of this audio?”

Daniel did not answer.

His jaw was set so tight the muscle beneath his left ear pulsed.

“Get that camera out of here,” Clara barked, turning on the journalist.

“We are on private property,” Clara said. “This is a private residence.”

“Actually, it isn’t,” I said, leaning back against the heavy wooden workbench.

“The lease for this loft is held by Carter Fine Arts,” I said. “My company.”

“Paid for with my maiden name,” I added. “You have no standing here, Clara.”