I pulled Caleb behind me.

Celeste laughed once.

Small.

Disbelieving.

“You have no idea what you’re doing.”

That frightened me more than if she had screamed.

Because she wasn’t pleading.

She was warning.

I stepped into the elevator with Caleb and pressed the button for the private penthouse floor. Celeste moved to follow, but I blocked the doors with my arm.

“Not tonight.”

Her eyes sharpened.

“Nolan.”

The doors closed on her face.

For twenty-seven floors, Caleb said nothing.

He stood in the corner, one hand in his pocket around my watch, the other holding the burned photograph against his chest.

When we reached the penthouse, I locked the door behind us.

The room smelled of expensive flowers and cold champagne. Below us, the city glittered like nothing terrible could survive inside all that light.

I poured water into a glass and handed it to him.

He drank like he hadn’t been allowed to be thirsty.

“Where did you get the photograph?” I asked.

“My father gave it to me.”

“When?”

“Three days ago.”

My body went still.

“Caleb,” I said carefully, “Scott is dead.”

The boy shook his head.

“No. He’s dead on paper.”

The phrase struck something deep inside me.

Dead on paper.

Not dead.

Erased.

Caleb reached into his pocket and took out my watch. Then he pressed a fingernail beneath the back plate.

It opened.

I had owned that watch for fifteen years and never knew the back could open.

Inside was a tiny metal strip engraved with numbers.

11-17-03.

B2.

EAST SERVICE.

My mouth went dry.

The date of the fire.

The basement sector beneath the old east wing.

The service tunnels had been sealed after the explosion. Insurance inspectors declared them structurally unsafe. I had signed the closure order myself while sedated, bandaged, and half-insane with survivor’s guilt.

Or at least I thought I had.

Caleb placed the watch on the table.

“My father said there are things under your hotel that were never burned.”

A knock hit the penthouse door.

Not polite.

Not guest-like.

Three hard strikes.

Security.

Celeste had moved fast.

I looked through the peephole and saw two of my private guards standing outside. Behind them was Victor Dane, my chief legal officer and Celeste’s brother.

Victor had handled the fire settlement.

Victor had handled Scott’s death certificate.

Victor had handled everything I was too broken to question.

“Nolan,” Victor called. “Open the door. We need to resolve this quietly.”

Caleb’s face drained.

“He’s with her.”

I turned back.

“How do you know?”

The boy pulled up his sleeve.

There, on his forearm, was a faded bruise shaped like fingers.

“Because he came to the place where they keep my father.”

My vision narrowed.

The room seemed to lose oxygen.

Outside, Victor knocked again.

Harder.

“Nolan. Open the door now.”

I looked at Caleb.

For the first time, his courage cracked.

He was still only a child.

And suddenly I understood the ugliest part of the truth.

He had not come to me because he trusted me.

He had come because Scott was running out of time.