“This is a mistake,” Marjorie said, her voice rising to a thin shriek.

“My son is a respected businessman in Philadelphia.”

“He has meetings in Montreal.”

“Ma’am, step back,” the second marshal said, not looking at her.

His eyes were locked on Nolan’s hands.

Nolan looked at the black SUVs blocking the runway.

He looked at the two local police officers who had their hands resting on their holsters.

“Evelyn, tell them,” Nolan gasped, turning his head toward the shadow where I stood.

“Tell them about the investment agreement.”

“Tell them it was a joint decision.”

I kept the phone to my ear.

“Marcus, is the bank representative on their way?” I asked quietly into the receiver.

“Yes,” Marcus replied.

“They have the original signature cards from the Delaware branch.”

“The ones he forged while you were in the recovery room.”

My chest tightened at the mention of the recovery room.

I looked down at my hands.

They were still dry and calloused from years of stripping varnish and polishing mahogany.

But they were steady now.

“Nolan,” I said, stepping forward into the pale afternoon light.