Through the window of the reception area, I saw a tall figure shaking snow off his wool coat.

It was Malcolm Sayer.

He carried a thick leather briefcase under his arm, his leather shoes slipping slightly on the wet floor as he entered the bay.

His face was pale, his eyes rimmed with red from lack of sleep.

“Avery,” Malcolm said, his breath rising in a small cloud.

“Did you bring the settlement?” I asked, not looking up as I secured a strap.

“No,” Malcolm said, his voice tight. “I didn’t.”

He walked over to where I was working, his briefcase clutched tightly against his chest.

“I spent the last six hours in my office going through Elliot’s personal digital files,” Malcolm said.

“And?” I asked.

“We need to speak in private,” he said, glancing at Calvin and the other workers.

I wiped my hands on my jeans and led him back into the glass office.

The radiator was clanking loudly now, struggling against the draft from the warehouse.

Malcolm set his briefcase on the desk and clicked it open.