“Ask him yourself,” Eleanor said, glancing toward the front window as tires crunched over the gravel outside.

The heavy sound of Julian’s sedan idling in the driveway filled the dark hallway.

I walked out the front door and down the stone steps just as Julian was lifting two leather suitcases out of his trunk.

“Your mother lied about your father thirty years ago,” I said, stopping three feet from his rear bumper.

Julian paused, twisting the heavy silver band of his watch around his wrist before leaning against the open trunk.

“I know who Marcus Thorne is, Vivian,” Julian said.