Elsie’s hand found the edge of my sleeve and held on.

I read the note a third time.

Don’t call your father.

I pulled out my phone and called Chloe anyway.

The elevator doors shut on Julian Vance, and I wrote the time down in my notebook: 10:22.

I didn’t go home to my apartment.

I drove to West End Avenue and sat parked behind Chloe Sterling’s building with the engine off for six minutes.

At eight thirty she had Marcus Vance set up at her conference table.