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.”
