I tapped the screen to open it.

It was a photograph of a handwritten document, signed by my grandfather.

And the date on the document was only three days before his death.

“Is something wrong?” Mr. Han asked, his voice filled with concern.

I looked up at the sea of waiting faces, the cameras flashing in my eyes, the bright lights blinding me.

The phone felt ice-cold in my hand.

“Mr. Han,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the music.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“We need to go to the office,” I said.

“But the press—”

Before he could finish, the main double doors of the ballroom burst open.

A man in a dark grey suit walked in, flanked by two local police officers.

The music abruptly stopped.

The guests began to murmur, parting to let the man pass.

He wasn’t looking at the crowd.

His eyes were locked directly on me.

He held up a black leather folder, his face grim under the bright lights of the chandeliers.

“Maya Arden?” the man called out, his voice echoing through the silent ballroom.