What are you doing talking to Jonathan Miller?”

Before Marcus could answer, the phone’s screen lit again with a preview banner, the message readable to everyone in the room before he could stop it: DON’T LET YOUR FATHER SEE THE ORIGINAL TRUST AMENDMENT.

DESTROY IT IMMEDIATELY.

Marcus bolted.

He turned and ran down the hall toward his home office, and Arthur — a man in his sixties, in dress shoes — moved with a speed and economy that told you everything about the career behind him, and cut his son off at the office door.

Marcus yanked a stack of legal papers from a desk drawer and turned toward the decorative electric fireplace in the corner, shoving them toward it, and got there before his own panic remembered that it held no real flame.