“Who is that, Carl?” I asked.

Carl lowered the phone and looked past me, straight at Jake and then at Derek.

“That was the lobby desk,” Carl said.

The heavy glass doors of the building’s main entrance rattled downstairs.

Footsteps began to echo up the tiled stairwell, firm and deliberate.

We all stood frozen in the doorway as the sound of leather shoes grew louder on the stairs.

The leather shoes stopped at the top of the landing.

A man in a dark charcoal suit stepped into the hallway.

He was in his late fifties, with sharp gray hair and gold-rimmed spectacles that caught the dim light of the hallway bulb.

He carried a thick leather briefcase with solid brass latches.

“Good morning, Carl,” the man said, his voice flat and resonant.

“Thank you for coming up, Arthur,” Carl said.

Carl did not look at me. He kept his eyes on the attorney.

“Mallerie, this is Arthur Vance,” Carl said. “He is my real estate attorney.”

I tightened my grip on the doorframe.

The painted wood was rough and cold under my fingers.