“You were the heir to everything your father built.”
“I did not ask to inherit it.”
“Children rarely ask for the names they receive.”
Silas walked toward the windows.
Below, cargo cranes leaned over the harbor like enormous metal birds. Ships moved through the darkness carrying fruit, machines, chemicals, weapons, people, secrets. His family took a percentage from nearly all of it.
When Silas was young, he believed power meant freedom.
Then his father taught him that power was only a larger room with stronger locks.
“Did Daniel Hart know about the tunnel?” he asked.
Julian’s pause was brief.
Too brief to seem accidental.
“He signed the property surveys.”
“Did he understand why Rook Maritime wanted the theater?”
“I never spoke to him personally.”
“Who did?”
“Loan officers.”
“Names.”
Julian’s smile returned, but it no longer contained warmth.
“You are asking a surprising number of questions about a dead accountant.”
“He was an architectural surveyor.”
“He became an accountant after his firm failed.”
“For whom?”
“Several shipping companies.”
“Vale companies?”
“Some.”
Silas turned.
“Bring me every contract Daniel Hart signed with any organization connected to us.”
“You believe he stole from you?”
“I believe you are avoiding simple answers.”
Julian stood.
For the first time that night, the mask of the polished adviser slipped.
Only slightly.
But Silas saw the irritation beneath it.
“I served your father for twenty-six years,” Julian said. “I carried you out of a warehouse when you were bleeding through your shirt. I negotiated peace when your temper nearly started a war. I buried men who would have put you in the ground.”
“And you were paid well.”
Julian’s face hardened.
“Loyalty is more than an invoice.”
“Then it should survive an audit.”
The two men stood across from one another while the harbor pulsed beneath them.
At last, Julian inclined his head.
“You will have the files by morning.”
He left without touching the whiskey.
Silas waited until the door closed.
Then he called Mara Quinn, chief investigator for Vale Security.
“I need surveillance on the Lyric Theatre,” he said.
“Visible?”
“No.”
“Threat level?”
“Unknown.”
“Subject?”
“Evelyn Hart.”
Mara was silent for a moment.
“I remember her.”
“Most people do.”
“Does she know?”
“No.”
“Will she be pleased when she discovers it?”
“No.”
“Then I assume you have a convincing explanation.”
Silas looked at the untouched whiskey.
“I have never had a convincing explanation where Evelyn is concerned.”
Chapter Three
The Theater That Refused to Die
The Lyric Theatre opened in 1891 with twelve private boxes, a painted ceiling, and enough gold leaf to offend three churches.
A century later, half the gold had peeled away.
The velvet seats were faded. The heating pipes groaned like trapped animals. Rainwater collected in buckets along the eastern corridor. The grand chandelier still worked, but only when Evelyn struck the electrical panel with the handle of a screwdriver.
She loved every broken inch of it.
On Monday morning, she stood in the costume workshop beneath a line of hanging dresses and discovered that someone had paid the theater’s property-tax arrears.
She checked the bank statement three times.
Then she called the city.
“There is no error,” the clerk said. “The balance was settled Friday afternoon.”
“By whom?”
“The payment came through a legal trust.”
“What legal trust?”
“I’m not permitted to disclose private account information.”
“It was my debt.”
“Not anymore.”
Evelyn hung up and stared at the telephone.
The gas company called ten minutes later to say her overdue balance had been cleared.
The mortgage lender sent a formal notice suspending collection.
By noon, nearly every urgent debt attached to the theater had either vanished or been postponed.
At twelve fifteen, Silas entered the lobby carrying coffee.
Evelyn was waiting beneath the cracked marble statue of Melpomene with both arms folded.
He took one look at her expression.
“I brought cinnamon coffee,” he said.
“You paid my taxes.”
“I dislike plain coffee.”
“You paid the gas bill.”
“The café had no almond pastries.”
“You interfered with the mortgage.”
Silas offered her one of the cups.
She did not take it.
“You are very angry,” he observed.
“I am deciding whether to throw that coffee or drink it first.”
“I recommend drinking it. Your aim improves with caffeine.”
She snatched the cup from his hand.
“Office,” she said.
“My office?”
“Mine.”
Evelyn marched across the lobby and up the curved staircase. Silas followed without argument.
Her office had once belonged to the theater’s founder. Now it contained fabric samples, unpaid invoices, two broken lamps, a sewing machine, and a narrow bed concealed behind a folding screen.