Chapter 2

The glass door did not open immediately. Elias's hand rested on the brushed-steel handle, and for a long moment the only sound in the great room was the rain against the tall windows and the low hum of the HVAC system. Behind him, Preston sat in the walnut chair with his head bowed, empty hands open on his knees, the leather folder face-up on the marble like evidence laid out for a trial.

Rowena had not moved from the linen cart. Her hands hung at her sides, the gold-tone watch on her right wrist catching the grey light, and she watched her daughter's small back with a terror she could not name. Pippa had been kneeling at Elias's leg for—how long? Seconds? Minutes? Time had stopped behaving properly in this room, stretching and folding like linen in her hands.

Griffin stood mid-left, his earpiece lit, one hand pressed to his jaw. He was listening to someone on the other end of the line, and his eyes moved between Preston and the glass doors, measuring distances, calculating angles. Rowena had seen him do this before—at the Christmas party when a stranger had wandered too far from the main room, at the summer reception when a boat had come too close to the dock. He was a man who thought in exits and entrances, and right now he was looking at all of them.

Elias turned his head, just slightly, enough to see Preston in his peripheral vision. His voice carried across the room without rising. "Griffin. The folder."

Griffin crossed the floor in three strides, scooped the leather folder from the marble, and brought it to Elias. He did not look at Preston as he passed. Preston did not look up.

Elias took the folder and opened it. Rowena watched his face, the deep laugh lines around his grey eyes, the way his jaw worked as he read the stamped page, then the page behind it, then the page behind that. He did not hurry. He was a man who read contracts the way other men read novels—slowly, carefully, looking for the clause that did not belong.

When he was done, he closed the folder and held it out to Griffin. "The date on the clearance page. Check it against the rehab schedule."

Griffin took the folder and pulled a thin phone from his jacket pocket. His thumbs moved fast over the screen, and Rowena saw the moment he found what he was looking for—his jaw tightened, his shoulders squared, and he looked at Preston with something that was not quite anger and not quite pity.

"The clearance page is stamped for the fourteenth," Griffin said. "The rehab schedule I have shows the fourteenth as a rest day. No appointment was booked. No therapist was assigned."

Preston did not speak. He sat in the walnut chair, silver hair swept back, fair ruddy skin gone pale, and he stared at his own hands like they belonged to someone else.