He had a mug of black coffee in front of him, but he hadn’t touched it.

He wore a dark wool overcoat that looked too expensive for the cracked vinyl seat.

I slid into the booth across from him.

“You came,” Daniel said.

“I don’t have many options,” I replied.

He looked at me for a long moment, his eyes scanning my face.

He looked tired, but there was a sharp, focused energy in his posture.

He reached down and lifted a thick, padded envelope from the seat beside him.

He placed it on the table between us.

The paper was heavy and worn at the edges.

“What is that?” I asked.

“Arthur Vance’s real medical records,” Daniel said in a quiet voice. “And the original transfer of shares.”

I stared at the envelope. “Arthur died of a heart attack.”

“That is what the press release said,” Daniel replied.

He leaned forward, lowering his voice even further.

“Arthur was in a hospital bed, heavily sedated, when Elias signed his name to the transfer.”

My breath caught in my throat. “Elias forged his signature?”