Beside me, Samuel lifted his head from my shoulder. His hand opened, and something fell from his small fist onto the pavement — a black access card, the same kind Elias had used to reach the forty-seventh floor.

Printed across the back, in tiny white letters, was a name I’d buried with my childhood.

MARTIN FAMILY TRUST.

Victor took the card out of my hand with a handkerchief before I could think to preserve it. Eleven years of watching me had taught him what I forgot in the moments that mattered: that the thing in your hand is either a keepsake or evidence, and you don’t get to choose after you’ve touched it.

“Where did he get this?” Anna whispered, staring at her son.

“Off the floor,” I said. Because I’d seen it now, in memory — the supervisor down by the elevator, blood at his mouth, his lanyard torn loose in the struggle.