Chapter Five: The Uncle

NORA

The Blackwood Global boardroom was on the forty-fifth floor, and it was built to make people feel small.

A black glass table long enough to land a plane on. Eleven leather chairs. A wall of windows with the whole city laid out below, all that light and none of it mine. I stood in the corridor outside the double doors in a borrowed navy blazer that Julian, Dominic's assistant, had produced from somewhere with a polite look and no questions.

"Breathe," said a voice beside me.

Samuel Greer had aged ten years since the parking garage. The rumpled gray coat was the same, and so was the leather briefcase held against his chest like a shield, but his eyes kept sliding to the doors as if they might open and swallow him.

"I am breathing," I whispered.

"You are not. Miss Vance, listen carefully. Under the terms of the trust, I may cast your vote by proxy. Preston's motion says the shareholder must appear in person, but the clause he is citing applies only to shareholders who refuse to be represented. I can argue that." He swallowed. "I think."

"You think?"

"I am a trusts lawyer. Not a magician."

I laughed, a thin and slightly hysterical sound, and pressed the back of my hand to my mouth. Somewhere beyond the doors a chair scraped. Voices, low and sharp. Nine o'clock, and every member of the board had come running at the sound of a whistle.

"Where's Dominic?" I asked.

"Taking a call in his office. He told Julian to bring you here and to keep you close." Greer glanced down the corridor and lowered his voice. "Nora. Whatever happens in there, you are his assistant. You pour water. You take notes. You do not speak unless spoken to, and you do not look at Preston Blackwood."

"Why not?"

"Because I do not know what he knows."

He went into the boardroom. The doors swung shut behind him with a soft, expensive click, and I was alone in the corridor with my heartbeat.

DOMINIC

I found my uncle waiting for me outside the boardroom, which was the first mistake of his evening.

Preston Blackwood does not wait. He is sixty-one, silver-haired, tanned in October, a man who has worn the same smile for forty years like a tailored suit. He is my late father's younger brother. He taught me to play chess when I was eight and to lose gracefully when I was nine. I have never once seen him lose.

He was standing by the window at the far end of the corridor, looking at the skyline.

He was not alone.

Nora Vance stood three feet from him in a blazer that did not quite fit, her hands folded tightly at her waist. Preston was talking to her. He wore the warm, avuncular expression he used on junior analysts and widows. She was staring at the floor as if it might open up and take her.

My stride lengthened before I had decided to move.

"Uncle."

Preston turned. His smile widened. "Dominic. There you are. I was just meeting your new assistant. Charming girl. Very quiet."

"She is not here to be charming."

"No?" His eyes went to Nora, bright and amused. "Then what is she here for?"

"To take notes." I stepped between them, not quite deliberately, and met his gaze. "You called an emergency session on four hours' notice. I assume there is a reason."

"There is always a reason." He clasped his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels. "Six months we have been losing votes to a ghost, nephew. An anonymous holder of fifty-one percent, hiding behind a lawyer. A company cannot be run on shadows. I only want the board to see the shareholder face to face."

"And if the shareholder doesn't appear?"

"Then, regretfully, the board will have to ask whether you are fit to lead without the owner's confidence." He sighed, almost kindly. "It is nothing personal."

It was entirely personal. We both knew it.

"Julian will show you in," I said. "I need a word with my assistant."

Preston inclined his head and drifted toward the doors, unhurried, whistling a tune I did not know. I watched him until the doors closed behind him.

Then I turned to Nora.

She was pale. Her eyes were fixed on a point over my shoulder, and her hands had gone white at the knuckles.

"What did he say to you?" I asked.

"Nothing."

"Ms. Vance."

"Nothing, Mr. Blackwood. He asked my name."

I did not believe her. But the doors had opened again, and Julian was waiting with a look that said the board was seated and the clock was running.

"Stay beside me," I said. "Do not leave this room."

She nodded once. I walked in with her a half step behind me, and I did not see her hand slip into the pocket of her blazer and close around her phone.

NORA

I felt the message before I read it.

The phone buzzed against my palm while Preston Blackwood, at the head of the table, was welcoming his dear colleagues to a historic evening. I slid my thumb across the screen below the edge of the table.

An unknown number. A single line.

I know exactly who you are, Miss Vance. You have until midnight. Vote with me to remove my nephew, or I tell him what is in your pocket.

My lungs forgot how to work.

I lifted my eyes, just slightly, just enough.

Across the glossy black table, Preston Blackwood was looking directly at me. He gave a small, courteous nod, and then, with one finger, tapped the breast pocket of his own jacket.