I walked to the cafe, holding my tote bag tightly against my side.

The cafe was a small, European-style bistro with a green awning.

Inside, the air was warm and smelled of roasted espresso beans and fresh pastry.

I looked toward the back.

Arthur Vance was already there.

He sat in a booth in the quiet corner, behind a large potted fiddle-leaf fig tree.

He wore a tailored navy suit and a crisp white shirt.

His silver hair was combed back perfectly.

He was reading a financial newspaper, a half-empty cup of black coffee on the table in front of him.

As I approached, he looked up and immediately stood.

“Clara, my dear,” he said, reaching out to take my hands.

His hands were warm and dry.

“Thank you for meeting me, Arthur,” I said.

I sat opposite him in the leather booth.

A waitress appeared, and I ordered a green tea.

Arthur waited until she walked away before he spoke.

“You sounded very serious on the phone yesterday,” Arthur said, leaning forward.

“I am serious,” I said.

I opened my tote bag and pulled out the manila folder.