PART 2: THE SEVENTEENTH SIGNATURE — THE SECRET MY MOTHER TOOK TO HER GRAVE

The man standing beside my mother in the photograph was Richard Bell, our company’s chief financial officer.

But it wasn’t his face that made my blood turn cold.

It was the little girl standing between them.

She wore a white summer dress, had dark curls tied with pink ribbons, and held my mother’s hand.

The little girl was Madison. My oldest stepsister.

I stared at the photograph, struggling to understand what I was seeing.

Madison had supposedly entered our family six months after my mother’s death.

Yet here she was, standing beside my mother in a photograph dated nearly two years before the funeral.

“That’s impossible,” I whispered.

Across the dinner table, Madison dropped her champagne glass.

Crystal shattered against the marble floor.

Rebecca went completely still.

And my father, Charles Whitmore, looked as though someone had just pronounced his death sentence.

Dominic Vale reached for the photograph.

“Claire,” he said quietly, “put that away.”

“Why?”

“Because there are people in this room who would rather destroy that picture than explain it.”

My father’s voice exploded.

“THIS DINNER IS OVER!”

He slammed his palm against the table, rattling the silverware.

“Everyone out! Now!”

Nobody moved.

Dominic remained seated, his expression almost frighteningly calm.

“Charles,” he said, “you invited me here to discuss a seventy-million-dollar shipping agreement. I suggest you remember who you’re speaking to.”

My father swallowed.

Dominic slowly turned toward me.

“Claire, your mother didn’t just leave you a photograph.”

He glanced at the letter trembling in my hands.

“She left you a way to find the truth.”

I unfolded the yellowed paper.

My mother’s handwriting filled the page.

My darling Claire,

If you’re reading this, then the man carrying my silver pen has finally returned.

I wish I could be there to explain everything myself.

But there are things your father has done that I can no longer protect him from.

For years, I believed keeping you innocent meant keeping you ignorant.

I was wrong.

The photograph is proof of a promise that was broken.

The number seventeen is not an amount.

It is a location.

And whatever Charles tells you, remember this:

** You were never the unwanted daughter. You were the daughter they were afraid of. **

My vision blurred.

For fifteen years, I had believed my father stopped loving me because I reminded him of my mother.

Now I wondered whether he had kept me close for an entirely different reason.

I looked up.

“What is seventeen?”

Richard Bell pushed back his chair.

“I really think we should stop this.”

Dominic’s eyes shifted toward him.

“Interesting.”

Richard stiffened.

“What is?”

“I asked Claire a question. You answered with fear.”

Richard’s face reddened.

My father pointed toward the door.

“Richard, go upstairs and call our attorneys.”

“No,” Dominic said.

One word.

Softly spoken.

Yet Richard stopped immediately.

Dominic placed the silver pen beside my mother’s photograph.

“Nobody leaves until Claire understands why her mother died believing she had been betrayed.”

A terrible silence followed.

Then Rebecca laughed.

It was a brittle, unnatural sound.

“Really, Dominic? You’re going to ruin a perfectly lovely dinner over some ancient family drama?”

He turned toward her.

“Rebecca, I haven’t forgotten you.”

Her smile vanished.

“And before tonight is over,” he continued, “we’re going to discuss why you were receiving payments from Whitmore Freight eighteen months before you married Charles.”

My father closed his eyes.

And suddenly, I understood something horrifying.

This wasn’t a dinner that had accidentally exposed my family’s secrets.

Dominic Vale had come here specifically to uncover them.

THE FIRST LIE: THE WOMAN WHO WAS NEVER A STRANGER

“That’s ridiculous,” Rebecca snapped.

She rose from her chair, her diamond necklace glittering beneath the chandelier.

“I didn’t even know Charles before Anne passed away.”

Dominic removed a thin black folder from his briefcase.

He opened it and slid a photocopied bank statement across the table.

“Then perhaps you can explain this.”

Rebecca stared at the document.

I leaned forward.

The payment was dated March 14, sixteen years earlier.

The recipient was Rebecca Langford, her maiden name.

The sender was Whitmore Freight & Marine.

The amount was $85,000.

The payment description read:

Consulting services — Project Seventeen.

My father snatched the paper.

“This is confidential company information!”

Dominic didn’t blink.

“Confidentiality doesn’t make a fraudulent payment legitimate.”

Rebecca looked toward Richard.

Richard refused to meet her eyes.

I felt as though the room were tilting.

“Project Seventeen?” I repeated.

Dominic nodded.

“Your mother discovered it shortly before she died.”

“What was it?”

He hesitated.

For the first time that evening, the man everyone feared seemed uncertain.

“It was supposed to be a shipping expansion project.”

“Supposed to be?”

“Seventeen privately controlled warehouses, acquired through shell companies. Some were used to move legitimate cargo. Others were used to conceal losses and unauthorized transfers.”

My father stepped forward.

“That’s a lie!”

Dominic turned his gaze toward him.

“Then you won’t mind an independent audit.”

Charles said nothing.

I looked at Richard.

For nearly ten years, I had worked beside him.

He had praised my spreadsheets, trusted me with emergency refinancing, and called me whenever payroll was at risk.

I had believed he respected me.

Now his hands were shaking.

“Richard,” I asked, “did you know about this?”

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Then whispered, “Your mother was a brilliant woman.”

Something in his voice made my stomach tighten.

“That wasn’t my question.”

Richard stared at the photograph.

“She found things she wasn’t supposed to find.”

My father lunged toward him.

“Shut your mouth!”

Dominic stood.

The movement was so sudden that every chair seemed to freeze.

“Charles.”

My father stopped.

Dominic’s voice lowered.

“If you threaten one more person in this room, our conversation ends, and the evidence goes directly to the authorities.”

I stared at him.

“Evidence?”

Dominic met my eyes.

“Claire, I didn’t come here to protect your father’s business.”

“Then why did you come?”

He looked at the silver pen.

“Because fifteen years ago, I made your mother a promise.”

I could barely breathe.

“What promise?”

His expression changed.

Pain crossed his face so quickly I almost missed it.

“That if anything happened to her, I would make sure you received what belonged to you.”

My father suddenly laughed.

“Don’t pretend you were some hero, Vale. You disappeared.”

Dominic turned slowly.

“Yes,” he said. “And I’ve spent fifteen years regretting it.”

THE SECOND LIE: THE FORTUNE HIDDEN IN MY NAME

I had spent my entire adult life believing Whitmore Freight belonged to my father.

His name was on the building.

His photograph hung in the boardroom.

Every newspaper described him as the founder of a shipping empire.

But Dominic opened another folder.

Inside were incorporation documents dated thirty-four years earlier.

At the top were two names.

Anne Margaret Whitmore.

Charles Edward Whitmore.

My mother’s name appeared first.

I frowned.

“She helped him start the company?”

Dominic looked almost sad.

“No, Claire.”

He pushed the document closer.

“She started the company.”

My heart hammered.

“What?”

“Your mother inherited a small freight brokerage from her grandfather. Three trucks, one leased warehouse, and a handful of contracts.”

I remembered my mother telling me bedtime stories about ships and distant ports.

I remembered her studying maps at the kitchen table.

I remembered her saying the ocean rewarded people who prepared for storms.

“Charles joined the business after they married,” Dominic continued. “He was talented at entertaining clients. Your mother was talented at building something that lasted.”

My father shook his head.

“She couldn’t have done it without me.”

Dominic’s expression hardened.

“Perhaps. But the original voting trust gave Anne controlling authority.”

I stared at the document.

“How much?”

Dominic paused.

“Sixty-two percent.”

Rebecca sank into her chair.

Lauren gasped.

Emily covered her mouth.

Madison looked directly at our father.

“Dad?”

Charles ignored her.

I could barely hear anything over the pounding of my pulse.

“Then what happened when Mom died?”

Dominic’s answer came slowly.

“Under the original trust, her controlling interest was supposed to transfer to you through a protected inheritance arrangement.”

My breath caught.

“To me?”

“Yes.”

“How much would that be worth?”

“That depends on the company’s valuation and outstanding liabilities.”

He glanced at my father.

“But the important thing isn’t the money.”

“What is?”

“You may have been the beneficial owner of the company you’ve been paid forty-eight thousand dollars a year to rescue.”

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Then Madison stood.

“That can’t be right.”

Her voice cracked.

“Dad told us the business was his.”

I looked at her.

For the first time in my life, Madison didn’t appear glamorous or superior.

She looked frightened.

Richard rubbed his forehead.

“Claire, the trust was amended.”

Dominic turned toward him.

“Was it?”

Richard’s eyes flickered.

“Anne signed a revised agreement.”

“Then produce the original.”

Silence.

Dominic placed the altered document from my purse on the table.

“This version contains a replacement page and an inconsistent witness certification. It doesn’t establish a valid transfer.”

My father looked ready to collapse.

I remembered every Christmas bonus I hadn’t received.

Every promotion I’d been denied.

Every weekend I’d worked without overtime.

Every time my father had called me ungrateful for asking to attend a board meeting.

And I realized something that hurt more than the money.

They hadn’t kept me invisible because I was useless.

They had kept me invisible because my competence made their control possible.

I stood.

My chair scraped across the marble.

“How many times?” I whispered.

Dad looked at me.

“What?”

“How many times did you know I was saving a company that should have belonged to me?”

His jaw tightened.

“Claire, you’re being emotional.”

I laughed.

It was an unfamiliar sound.

Cold.

Exhausted.

“Emotional?”

My eyes filled.

“I spent my twenty-fifth birthday negotiating with a bank because you forgot a loan covenant.”

“That’s business.”

“I missed Aunt Helen’s funeral because Richard needed me to correct a customs filing.”

“Someone had to do it.”

“I worked through pneumonia to prevent our employees from losing their insurance.”

My voice broke.

“And you introduced me tonight as someone who handles household matters.”

He looked away.

“You should be grateful you had a place here at all.”

The words landed like a slap.

Then a quiet voice spoke from the other side of the table.

“Charles, that’s enough.”

It was Martha.

Our housekeeper had served our family for twenty-seven years.

She had held me when my mother died.

She had brought soup to my office when I worked late.

She had been the only person who remembered my birthday every year.

Now she stood straight, her eyes shining.

“Miss Anne would be ashamed of you.”

My father pointed at her.

“You’re fired.”

Martha smiled sadly.

“No, sir.”

She removed her apron.

“I resigned this morning.”

THE THIRD LIE: WHAT HAPPENED THE NIGHT MY MOTHER DIED

Dominic approached Martha.

“Did you bring everything?”

She nodded.

“Everything Miss Anne entrusted to me.”

From beneath her cardigan, she withdrew a small brass key.

Attached to it was a faded blue ribbon.

I recognized it immediately.

My mother used to tie that ribbon around the handle of her favorite sewing basket.

“Martha,” I whispered, “where did you find that?”

“Your mother gave it to me three days before the accident.”

The word made my chest tighten.

Accident.

That was what everyone had called it.

My mother had died when her car left a rain-soaked road outside Baltimore.

The police report blamed poor visibility.

My father said she’d been driving too fast.

I had believed him.

For fifteen years.

Dominic stared at the key.

“Does it open the box?”

Martha nodded.

“What box?” I demanded.

She turned toward me.

“Your mother’s deposit box at a private document-storage facility.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because she gave me specific instructions. I was to wait until you were thirty and Mr. Vale returned with her pen.”

I stared at Dominic.

“Why thirty?”

“Your mother wanted you to have enough experience to recognize what was real,” he said.

I almost laughed.

Experience?

I’d spent ten years learning how to survive my father’s disappointment.

Apparently, I’d also spent ten years learning how to run his empire.

Martha took my hand.

“There’s something else, sweetheart.”

Her voice trembled.

“The night your mother died, she called the house.”

I froze.

“What?”

“She asked for you.”

My throat tightened.

“I was at a sleepover.”

“I know.”

Martha’s eyes filled.

“She sounded frightened. She told me she’d discovered something terrible and was coming home.”

My father whispered, “Martha, don’t.”

She ignored him.

“Then she asked me to tell you something.”

I could barely speak.

“What?”

Martha squeezed my fingers.

“She said, ‘Tell Claire I love her. And tell her never to sign anything Richard Bell puts in front of her.'”

Richard made a strangled sound.

I turned toward him.

Suddenly, I remembered.

Three nights after my mother’s funeral, Richard had brought paperwork to the house.

My father said it was necessary for insurance.

I was fifteen.

I remembered signing page after page while Rebecca, whom Dad had introduced as a family friend, watched from the doorway.

I had been crying too hard to read anything.

“Oh, God,” I whispered.

Dominic noticed my expression.

“What is it?”

I looked at Richard.

“You made me sign something after her funeral.”

Richard went white.

My father stepped forward.

“You were a child. You don’t remember correctly.”

“I remember your blue pen.”

Richard backed away.

“I was following instructions.”

“Whose instructions?” Dominic demanded.

Richard looked at Charles.

Then Rebecca.

Finally, he whispered, “Both of theirs.”

Rebecca jumped up.

“You’re not putting this on me!”

The three stepsisters stared at their mother.

Madison spoke first.

“Mom, what did you do?”

Rebecca’s perfect composure crumbled.

“I did what I had to do to protect this family.”

I felt sick.

“Protect this family from what?”

Rebecca looked at me with an expression I’d never seen before.

Not contempt.

Not jealousy.

Fear.

“From your mother,” she whispered.

THE FOURTH LIE: WHY MY STEPSISTER WAS IN THE PHOTOGRAPH

I picked up the old picture again.

Madison stood beside my mother, smiling into the camera.

“Explain this.”

Rebecca shook her head.

“Claire, please.”

“Explain why Madison knew my mother before she died.”

Madison crossed the room.

She snatched the photograph from my hands.

Her eyes widened.

“I remember this place.”

Everyone turned toward her.

“It was a garden party,” she whispered. “There were yellow flowers and a fountain.”

Rebecca closed her eyes.

“Madison, stop.”

But Madison continued.

“I remember that woman.”

She pointed to my mother.

“She gave me a silver bracelet.”

My breath caught.

My mother had owned a collection of small silver bracelets.

She gave them to children on special occasions.

Madison looked toward Rebecca.

“You told me she was Aunt Anne.”

Rebecca covered her mouth.

My father sank into his chair.

Dominic asked, “Madison, how old were you?”

“Seven.”

“Did you see Anne again?”

Madison nodded slowly.

“Several times.”

I stared at her.

“Why?”

She looked helplessly toward her mother.

Rebecca began crying.

Not the delicate tears she used when she wanted sympathy.

These were ugly, frightened sobs.

“Because Charles was helping me,” she whispered.

“Helping you with what?”

She glanced at Richard.

“With the children.”

I felt my stomach drop.

Dominic spoke quietly.

“Rebecca, tell Claire the truth.”

Rebecca shook her head.

“I can’t.”

“Then I will.”

Dominic turned toward me.

“Your father and Rebecca were involved long before Anne died.”

I closed my eyes.

Somewhere inside me, a fifteen-year-old girl was still waiting for her father to come home from the funeral and hold her.

Instead, he’d been planning another wedding.

“How long?” I asked.

Rebecca whispered, “Almost four years.”

I stared at Madison.

“Did Mom know?”

Dominic nodded.

“Eventually.”

“And she invited Madison to a garden party?”

“Your mother didn’t believe children should suffer for their parents’ mistakes.”

The words nearly broke me.

That sounded exactly like her.

I remembered how she had stopped our car once to help a stranger whose tire had blown.

How she sent anonymous grocery cards to employees during difficult winters.

How she always said kindness wasn’t a reward for good behavior.

It was a choice.

Madison began crying.

“I didn’t know, Claire.”

I believed her.

For once, I truly did.

But something still didn’t make sense.

“If Mom knew about the affair, why didn’t she divorce Dad?”

Dominic looked at the photograph.

“She was preparing to.”

“Then why didn’t she?”

His eyes darkened.

“Because she discovered the affair was connected to something much bigger.”

Richard suddenly grabbed his phone.

“I need my lawyer.”

Dominic nodded.

“That’s your right.”

Then he added, “But I recommend you preserve every record on that device.”

Richard froze.

Dominic continued.

“Anne discovered that company funds were being diverted through Project Seventeen. She was gathering evidence when she died.”

My father shook his head.

“You’re making accusations you can’t prove.”

Dominic looked toward Martha.

“That’s why we need the deposit box.”

I gripped the brass key.

“Then we’re going tonight.”

My father stood.

“Claire, you’re not going anywhere with him.”

I turned toward him.

For thirty years, his anger had controlled my decisions.

That night, something inside me finally changed.

“You don’t get to decide where I go anymore.”

His face twisted.

“After everything I’ve done for you?”

I looked around the lavish dining room.

At the imported flowers.

The expensive paintings.

The crystal chandeliers.

The three daughters he’d proudly displayed.

Then I looked down at my mother’s silver earrings.

“Everything you’ve done?”

I smiled through my tears.

“Dad, I think we’re finally going to find out exactly what you’ve done.”

THE FIFTH LIE: THE BOX THAT WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO BE OPENED

Forty minutes later, I sat in the back of Dominic Vale’s black sedan.

Martha sat beside me.

Dominic occupied the front passenger seat, speaking quietly to his attorney.

Rain streaked the windows.

Baltimore’s harbor lights shimmered against the dark water.

I stared at the brass key in my palm.

“Why did you disappear?” I asked.

Dominic ended his call.

He turned toward me.

“After your mother’s death?”

I nodded.

He was silent for a long moment.

“Because I was threatened.”

I looked up.

“By my father?”

“Not directly.”

“Then who?”

“Someone who knew details about my younger brother’s disappearance.”

I frowned.

“You have a brother?”

“Had.”

The word carried years of grief.

“His name was Adrian. He disappeared when he was twenty-six.”

“I’m sorry.”

Dominic nodded.

“Anne was helping me find out what happened to him. She believed Project Seventeen was connected.”

I studied his face.

“Is that why you helped her?”

“At first.”

“And afterward?”

He looked out the windshield.

“Afterward, because she was the only person who told me the truth when everyone else was afraid.”

Something softened inside me.

“My mother was like that.”

He smiled faintly.

“Yes. She was.”

The car stopped outside a discreet stone building near the waterfront.

A security guard checked Dominic’s identification.

Inside, an elderly woman wearing a navy suit greeted us.

“Mr. Vale.”

“Mrs. Holloway.”

Her eyes moved toward me.

Then she stopped breathing for a moment.

“Good heavens.”

I frowned.

“Is something wrong?”

She pressed a hand to her chest.

“You look exactly like Anne.”

My eyes filled.

Mrs. Holloway led us downstairs into a private archive room.

She opened a steel cabinet and withdrew a rectangular metal box.

A brass plate on its lid read:

A.M.W. — 17

My fingers trembled.

I inserted the key.

The lock turned.

Inside were three objects.

A leather-bound ledger.

A sealed packet of legal documents.

And a small velvet pouch.

Dominic reached for the ledger.

I stopped him.

“Please.”

He withdrew his hand.

“Of course.”

I opened it myself.

The first page contained my mother’s handwriting.

Project Seventeen — Confidential Investigation.

Beneath the heading was a list of transfers.

Dates.

Account numbers.

Warehouse locations.

And names.

Charles Whitmore.

Richard Bell.

Rebecca Langford.

My eyes moved farther down.

There was another name.

Adrian Vale.

I looked at Dominic.

“Your brother?”

He leaned forward.

Then his face went completely still.

“That’s his signature.”

“What does it mean?”

Dominic shook his head.

“I don’t know.”

But his voice suggested he feared the answer.

I opened the legal packet.

Inside was a notarized statement from my mother.

It described suspected financial misconduct and the improper use of company funds.

Attached were copies of trust documents, banking records, and a handwritten memorandum.

Then I found something that made my heart stop.

A medical report.

My mother’s name was printed at the top.

The date was two weeks before her death.

I stared at the first paragraph.

Dominic noticed.

“Claire?”

I couldn’t speak.

Because the report didn’t concern my mother’s health.

It concerned mine.

I had undergone emergency surgery when I was fourteen after developing severe abdominal pain.

My father said it had been a routine procedure.

But the document in my hands contained an additional laboratory record.

A genetic relationship analysis.

Two names appeared beneath the results.

Claire Anne Whitmore.

Charles Edward Whitmore.

And beside them was a sentence that made the entire room disappear.

“The tested individuals are excluded as a biological father–daughter relationship.”

I stopped breathing.

“No.”

Martha began crying.

“No, no, no.”

I read it again.

And again.

The words refused to change.

Charles Whitmore was not my biological father.

I looked at Dominic.

He stared at the document, his face pale.

“Did you know?” I whispered.

He shook his head.

“Claire, I swear I didn’t.”

“Then who is my father?”

Martha covered her face.

Mrs. Holloway quietly stepped toward the door.

Dominic looked at the velvet pouch.

“Perhaps Anne left you an answer.”

With shaking fingers, I opened it.

Inside was a silver locket.

I recognized it immediately.

My mother wore it every day.

After her funeral, my father told me it had been lost in the accident.

I opened the locket.

There were two tiny photographs.

One showed my mother holding me as a newborn.

The other showed a young man standing beside her.

He had dark hair.

A crooked smile.

And unmistakable gray eyes.

Dominic Vale’s gray eyes.

My breath caught.

I looked at Dominic.

Then back at the photograph.

“Is that you?”

He leaned closer.

His expression changed instantly.

“No.”

His voice was barely audible.

I swallowed.

“Then who?”

He stared at the picture as though he were looking at a ghost.

“That’s Adrian.”

His missing brother.

The man who had disappeared fifteen years earlier.

I could hardly speak.

“Are you telling me—”

Dominic stepped back.

“Claire, we need to verify everything before drawing conclusions.”

But Martha was already crying harder.

I turned toward her.

“You knew?”

She nodded.

“Your mother made me promise not to tell you until she could explain it herself.”

My knees weakened.

Dominic caught my arm before I fell.

I pulled away.

“Don’t.”

He released me immediately.

I stared at the photograph.

At the stranger whose face had been hidden from me my entire life.

Then I whispered the question that shattered everything I thought I knew.

“Is Adrian Vale my real father?”

Martha opened her mouth.

But before she could answer, Dominic’s phone rang.

He glanced at the screen.

His expression turned deadly serious.

“Excuse me.”

He answered.

“Speak.”

A man’s voice came through the speaker.

“Mr. Vale, we have a problem.”

“What happened?”

“Charles Whitmore has reported his daughter missing. He’s claiming she’s mentally unstable and was abducted.”

Dominic’s jaw tightened.

“Anything else?”

“Yes, sir.”

A pause.

Then the words that made my skin crawl.

“Richard Bell has disappeared, and someone just attempted to access the Whitmore trust records using Claire’s electronic signature.”

I stared at Dominic.

“My signature?”

He nodded grimly.

“Someone knows you’ve opened the box.”

Then his phone vibrated again.

A photograph appeared on the screen.

It showed a man standing outside an old waterfront warehouse.

The picture had been taken less than ten minutes earlier.

Dominic went completely motionless.

His phone slipped slightly in his hand.

“Impossible,” he whispered.

I looked over his shoulder.

The man in the photograph had silver-streaked dark hair, a weathered face, and familiar gray eyes.

He was older now.

But I recognized him immediately.

He was the man inside my mother’s locket.

Adrian Vale.

The man everyone believed had disappeared fifteen years ago.

Dominic gripped the phone.

“Where was this taken?”

“Warehouse Seventeen, sir.”

The caller hesitated.

“And there’s something else.”

“What?”

“The man asked us to deliver a message.”

Dominic’s voice became a whisper.

“What message?”

The caller answered:

“Tell Claire Whitmore that her mother didn’t die in that accident.”

My heart stopped.

The voice continued.

“And tell Dominic that if he wants to know where Anne has been for fifteen years, he must bring Claire to Warehouse Seventeen before midnight.”

I grabbed the edge of the table.

My mother.

Alive?

Somewhere beyond the rain-soaked streets of Baltimore, the woman I had buried at fifteen might still be breathing.

Then another message appeared on Dominic’s phone.

This time, it was a video.

A woman sat beside a window in a dimly lit room.

Her hair was streaked with gray.

Her face was thinner.

But I knew her.

I knew the shape of her mouth.

The way she tilted her head.

The tiny scar above her left eyebrow.

“Mom?” I whispered.

The woman looked directly into the camera.

Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Claire, sweetheart, if you’re watching this, please listen carefully.”

Her voice trembled.

“Don’t trust Adrian.”

The video flickered.

She leaned closer.

“And whatever you do, don’t tell Dominic what you found in the ledger.”

Dominic turned toward me.

“Claire?”

I stared at him.

The woman on the screen began sobbing.

“Because the man who destroyed our family wasn’t Charles.”

A shadow moved behind her.

She looked over her shoulder in terror.

Then whispered:

“It was the person who gave you the silver pen.”

The screen went black.

And standing beside me, Dominic Vale slowly reached into his jacket.

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