It was my home landline in Lakewood.
I swiped the screen.
I brought the phone to my ear.
A voice answered—smooth, cultured, terrifyingly reasonable, accompanied by the faint, background sound of my seven-year-old daughter Chloe practicing her scales on our upright piano:
*”Sebastian, my dear boy,”* the man said through the earpiece.
The voice of **Vice Admiral Arthur Sterling (Retired)**.
Nick’s father.
Eleanor’s oldest brother.
*”You have caused an exceptional amount of administrative friction for eleven o’clock on a Friday morning.”
*
The sound of a teacup clicking softly against a china saucer echoed over the receiver:
*”Your wife Clara makes a remarkably charming chamomile tea.”
*
*”She was just telling me how proud she is of your work at the agency.”
*
Arthur Sterling let out a slow, cold, patrician chuckle that sounded like dry birch leaves catching fire:
*”Bring the titanium key to Lakewood, Sebastian.”
*
*”Bring it alone.”
