I had forgotten it was on the desk.
Inside was a tiny photograph of me and Claire from another lifetime. We were younger, laughing on a beach in Maine, my arm around her waist, her face turned toward mine like the world had no sharp edges.
Behind the photo was a folded scrap of paper so small I nearly missed it.
I unfolded it.
There were only six words.
Trust no one with a crown.
For a moment, it meant nothing.
Then my eyes lifted to the Sterling Industries logo mounted on the wall behind my desk.
A silver lion.
Wearing a crown.
My company’s emblem.
My inheritance.
My cage.
Margaret returned from the outer office.
“Mr. Sterling,” she said carefully, “Mr. Holt is on his way. Security is locking down private access. I also pulled exterior footage from the lobby.”
“And?”
Her eyes flicked toward the boys.
I understood.
“Boys,” I said gently, “Margaret has snacks in the conference room. Probably better snacks than I do.”
Noah looked suspicious. “Do you have cookies?”
Margaret, God bless her, didn’t blink. “Three kinds.”
Lucas narrowed his eyes. “Chocolate chip?”
“Obviously.”
They followed her assistant, Janet, into the adjoining room, but Lucas paused at the door.
“You won’t leave?”
The question pierced me.
I crossed the room and crouched in front of him.
“No,” I said. “I won’t leave.”
He searched my face, then nodded once, as if making a decision about me.
When the door closed, Margaret handed me her tablet.
The footage showed the boys entering the lobby with a man I didn’t recognize at first. Gray hair. Brown coat. Slight limp.
Paul.
He bent down, spoke to them, then turned and left before security approached.
The camera caught his face for half a second.
Margaret zoomed in.
My breath stopped.
“That’s impossible,” I whispered.
“You know him?”
“Yes.”
Paul Hargrove had been my father’s personal attorney for thirty years.
And he had died six months ago.