That Wednesday morning, Raya stood by the tall windows, watching the traffic below. To her, the city looked like an atlas. Her mother knelt on the tiled floor, polishing a table leg until it shone. The air smelled faintly of lemon oil and old leather. Everett Langston, tall and neatly dressed in slate gray, paced through the room. He was expecting guests. His jaw was tight with focus, his voice low as he rehearsed sentences under his breath. On the vast glass table in front of him lay a folder containing a contract that could transform the future of his art foundation.
Soon the elevator chimed. A group of visitors entered. Their suits were expensive, their smiles were polished. Jason Allerton, the man leading them, had an aura of confidence, the kind cultivated by years of closing deals and pretending he cared about more than profit. He carried a leather case and placed it on the table with ceremonial care. The others, Mitchell Bronson, Harold Lee, and Camden Doyle, nodded approvingly as Allerton lifted from the case a framed manuscript said to be from the fifteenth century. It was rumored to be a missing piece of American colonial history. Everett leaned in. His eyes gleamed.