His hand was already on the grip of his holster.

“It is in the lining of the ceremonial jacket,” I said.

“Which one?” Aries asked.

“The midnight blue tuxedo he made for your uncle,” I said. “The one you kept in the glass case in your study.”

Aries leaned back against the leather seat.

The tension in his shoulders did not ease, but his eyes narrowed.

“The embroidery on the lapels,” he said.

“It is not silk,” I said. “It is silver-plated copper wire, wrapped in dyed cotton.”

“A physical backup,” Killian said.

“Yes,” I said. “My father was a master of the double stitch. He hid the cryptographic keys in the pattern of the buttonholes.”

“And who else knew this?” Aries asked.

“Only me,” I said. “And the man who helped him buy the wire.”

“Who?”

“Your former head of security,” I said. “The one who died three years ago.”

Aries looked out the window at the rain.

The droplets ran down the glass like tears on a cold face.

“He did not die of natural causes,” Aries said.

“I know,” I said.