He wore his heavy gray wool overcoat, the shoulders dark and damp with rain.

“Mr. Draven,” Sinclair said, his voice smooth and entirely devoid of tension. “I did not mean to startle you.”

“What are you doing here, Victor?” Lucian asked, his hand remaining inside his jacket.

“I was finishing the nightly perimeter check,” Sinclair replied, his eyes scanning the desk.

He looked at the laptop, then at me, his gaze lingering on my trembling hands.

“The storm is getting worse,” he added. “I wanted to ensure the office doors were secure.”

“They are secure,” Lucian said.

He leaned slightly forward, blocking Sinclair’s view of the screen.

“You may leave us. I will call you when we are ready to go.”

Sinclair paused for a beat, his expression unreadable in the shadows.

He bowed his head slightly. “Of course, sir. I will be downstairs if you need me.”

He turned and closed the door behind him.

The heavy latch clicked into place.

I let out the breath I had been holding, my shoulders sinking.

“V.S.,” I whispered, pointing at the screen. “That is him. Victor Sinclair.”