He wore a bespoke charcoal wool overcoat, damp from the Philadelphia drizzle, over a dark navy suit.

His silver hair was combed back, and his expression was entirely devoid of warmth.

Behind him stood four people, three men and one woman, all carrying identical black leather portfolios.

They moved with the quiet, practiced precision of people who spent their lives in federal courthouses.

Nolan stepped back, his hand dropping from his coat pocket.

“Who the hell are you?” Nolan asked, trying to project the authority he usually reserved for his junior associates.

“This is a private room,” he added, his voice waivering. “You need to leave.”

My father did not look at him.

He walked straight to the side of my bed, his leather shoes clicking softly on the linoleum.

“Evelyn,” he said, his voice low and steady.

He reached out and touched my shoulder, his hand warm and heavy.

Then he looked down at Maisie, his eyes softening for a fraction of a second.

“She looks like your mother,” he murmured.

“She does,” I said.

Nolan walked around the foot of the bed, his face flushing red.