His eyes went from me, to his stone-faced family, to the corporate lawyers, to the armed deputies, and back to me, and none of it computed, because none of it belonged in the reality he had constructed over the last two days.

“Dad?” he stammered, forcing a confused little laugh.

“What, what’s going on?

How is Nora sitting there?

She was supposed to be on the train, she was in coach—” “Shut your mouth, Julian,” Arthur said.

And his voice rang through the quiet terminal like a gavel striking wood, the voice of a judge calling a court to order, and Julian’s mouth closed.

Chapter 17 — The Folder at Her Feet