I walked down the long hallway, my heels clicking on the marble floor.

Every portrait of a dead Hartwell seemed to stare down at me.

I reached the double doors of the library.

I pushed them open.

Vivian sat in her high-backed velvet chair by the fireplace, a cup of tea in her hand.

Carter stood by the window, looking out at the manicured gardens.

On the mahogany desk between them lay the trademark documents and a sleek black pen.

“You’re late, Evelyn,” Vivian said, not looking up from her tea.

“I’m here,” I said, stepping into the room.

I closed the heavy doors behind me, the latch clicking shut.

“Do you have the signed papers?” Carter asked, turning from the window.

“I have them,” I lied, keeping my hand in my coat pocket, my finger resting on the recording device.

“Good,” Vivian said, finally looking at me with her cold, gray eyes.

“Then let us finish this unpleasant business so we can all move on.”

I walked toward the desk, the silence in the room heavy and suffocating.