Chapter 10

The door has barely closed behind Graham when it opens again. This time there is a knock, light and polite, a second too late.

Serena Martins glides in with a white cup on a white saucer, her smile as smooth as the suit.

"Your coffee, sir. Black, as always." Her gaze drifts to the glass on his desk, and for half a second the smile slips. "I didn't know you'd switched."

Cavan looks at her. He picks up the glass of water, holds it level and drinks without breaking eye contact.

"Well, it's good to try new things," she says. "I'll admit I never expected to see you drinking water."

She sets the saucer on the corner of his desk, in the exact spot she has used every morning for four years. Her left hand does the placing. Her right stays tucked against her hip with the cuff turned inward.

When she straightens, the cuff swings out.

A smear of violet ink sits on the white linen, a half circle with a tail, the kind a postal date stamp leaves when someone presses it down too fast.

Cavan looks at it for exactly one second. Then he looks at her face.

"You were out of the building this morning," he says. "I saw you walk past my office a little before nine."

"Only for a few minutes. I had to collect a suit from the dry cleaner, and I like to get there before the line forms."

"That's a long way to go for a dry cleaner."

"It's a very good dry cleaner." She tilts her head with a pleasant, puzzled look. "Is something the matter, sir?"

"Not at all." He lifts the coffee, holds it for a moment and sets it down without tasting it. "I wanted to tell you that the intern starts on Monday at eight. I'd like her desk placed directly outside my office."

"The Collins girl?" The pause that follows is so small that anyone else would have called it a breath. "I usually handle onboarding myself, and that floor has never had an intern before. Wouldn't she be more comfortable closer to my office?"

"I'm sure she would, which is exactly why I'd rather she wasn't."

Serena nods once. At the door she stops with one manicured hand resting on the frame.

"I hope you won't be disappointed, sir. She has such a forgettable face."

"I don't forget faces," Cavan says. "Not the ones that matter."

The door closes behind her without a sound. He stays where he is, looking at the cup, and then he pushes it to the far edge of the desk, as far as his arm will reach.

Mila asks the driver to drop her at the campus gates.

She waves until the black car turns the corner. Then she walks past the lecture hall, past the bus stop, and keeps going until the buildings turn into pawn shops and laundromats. Her coat feels twice as heavy as it did this morning. With every step she can feel the phone and the tiny recorder pressing against her ribs like two small, guilty hearts.

The post office on Delmar Street smells like cardboard and floor wax. A woman with reading glasses on a beaded chain looks up from behind the counter. Her name tag says Dolores.

"Back so soon, Miss Hunt? I thought your sister had already taken care of everything for you."

Mila's hand stops halfway to her pocket.

"My sister?"

"The tall girl with the dark hair and the lovely manners. She came in this morning with your letter of authorization, all signed and in perfect order, so I handed her the spare key." Dolores slides a form across the counter. "She said you were running late and she didn't want you to worry."

Mila looks down at the page.

I, Clara Hunt, authorize the bearer to access Box 218.

The signature at the bottom leans slightly to the left, with a long loop on the C and a small hook on the final T. It is hers, not a copy of hers, down to the pressure of the pen.

I only ever signed that name once, at that counter, and nobody was watching.

Then she remembers that she has been signing her real name for nineteen years in a house full of people who have never once looked away from her.

"Dolores," she says carefully, "would you mind if I looked inside the box?"

"Of course not, honey. Go right on back."

The wall of little brass doors is cold under her fingers. She finds 218 and slides her key into the lock, and it turns so smoothly her stomach drops. Someone has oiled it. Someone has been opening this door often enough to care how it sounds.

Inside lies the thick manila envelope from her lawyer, holding the shell company papers and the Nova account statements that were never supposed to leave this box.

The flap is sealed with clear tape.

Mila never uses tape. She seals everything with a lick and a press of her thumb, because tape can be lifted and laid back down without leaving a trace.

She slides the envelope out, and beneath it she finds a glossy photograph lying face up.

It is her, this morning, stepping out of the black Wendell car in front of the tower. Her coat is open at the collar and her chin is lifted. Her eyes are fixed on the building, and she looks, she realizes with a lurch, like someone walking into a place she already owns.

On the back, in neat typed letters, is a single line.

Does he know what you are?

Mila stands very still in the dusty hush of the post office, holding a photograph of herself, and listens to her own heartbeat.

It isn't Sophia. Sophia could never resist signing something with a flourish. This was written by someone who wants me frightened, but wants me to know they're patient.

The black phone buzzes inside her lining.

She turns her back to the camera above the door, slides it out and cups it against her ribs. The message is from her broker.

Harris Capital now holds nine percent of Kestrel Pay. They asked me who your lawyer is. I told them nothing, but you should call me as soon as you can.

Mila closes her eyes.

Aria Harris isn't guessing anymore. She's reading my mail.

"Is everything all right back there, honey?" Dolores calls from the front.

"Everything's fine, thank you." Mila opens her eyes and tucks the photograph inside her coat. "I just have one more question, if you don't mind. Did my sister mention her name?"

Dolores frowns, thinking hard. "She didn't, but she did leave a message for you. She said to tell Clara that an old friend of the family sends her warmest regards."

"An old friend of the family."

"That's exactly how she put it."

Mila thanks her, pockets the key and walks out into the gray afternoon. A block later she stops at a corner to let a bus roll past, and in its dark side window she sees a woman standing a few steps behind her in a dark coat and sunglasses. A phone held at chest height, pointed straight at her.

Mila spins around.

The shutter clicks. The stranger lowers the phone, gives her a small, pleasant nod and walks into the crowd at the crosswalk without hurrying. Mila watches until the dark coat disappears between two buses.

She does not know the woman. She has never seen that face, and she cannot even say whether it was young or old.

Sophia would have wanted me to see her do it, she thinks. Aria Harris would have sent a man. Nobody I know could have gotten into that box.

She stops a taxi with an unsteady hand, climbs in and gives her address. As the car pulls away, she looks back at the spot where the woman stood.

On the curb, half hidden by a paper cup, is a smear of violet ink, as if someone had set down a stamped letter and walked away.

Mila stands there puzzled. Who on earth would go these lengths to get to her?