Danielle's head snapped toward him.
The entire room became silent.
Liang's voice turned cold.
“Be careful, Richard.”
But Richard was already gathering his papers.
“This dinner is over.”
He shoved the binder into his briefcase.
One sheet slipped free.
It landed near Danielle's shoe.
She bent to pick it up.
Richard reached for it.
“Give me that.”
Danielle froze.
Not because of his voice.
Because of the page.
At the bottom was an old parcel reference.
Pier District Redevelopment Zone 7.
Danielle knew that name.
She didn't know why.
Then she remembered.
A blue binder.
One of the boxes she'd taken from her father's house.
Her mother's boxes.
She had seen those words printed across the cover years earlier.
Danielle looked at Richard.
For the first time that night, he looked genuinely afraid of her.
“Give me the page.”
Danielle handed it back.
Richard shoved it into the briefcase and walked toward the exit.
Liang watched him leave.
Then he turned to Danielle.
“Go home.”
“What?”
“Go home and find that binder.”
“How did you—”
“Your face.”
Danielle's heart pounded.
Liang stepped closer.
“If your mother kept records from the original project, do not give them to Richard. Do not tell him you have them. Call an attorney.”
Danielle stared at him.
“What exactly was my mother involved in?”
Liang looked toward the door Richard had just disappeared through.
“I don't know.”
Then he looked back at her.
“But I think Richard does.”
At 11:18 that night, Danielle was suspended.
Richard had called the restaurant owner before he'd even reached his car.
At 12:31 a.m., Danielle reached her apartment.
She didn't remove her coat.
She went straight to the hallway closet.
One box.
Nothing.
Second box.
Photographs.
Old tax records.
University papers.
Then her fingers touched blue cardboard.
She pulled it free.
Her knees almost gave out.
PIER DISTRICT REDEVELOPMENT ZONE 7
Danielle carried the binder to the kitchen table.
Her mother's handwriting covered the pages.
Calculations.
Highlighted paragraphs.
Environmental tables.
Names.
Then she reached page seventeen.
A sentence had been written across the top in red ink.
ORIGINAL TEST RESULTS DO NOT MATCH WHITMORE'S DISCLOSURE.
Danielle stopped breathing.
Underneath it was a photocopied document.
Richard Whitmore's signature appeared at the bottom.
But that wasn't what terrified her.
Behind the document was a sealed white envelope.
Her name was written across it.
DANIELLE.
Not Evelyn.
Not Harold.
Danielle.
Her mother had left it specifically for her.
Her hands shook as she turned it over.
On the back were nine handwritten words:
If Richard Whitmore has returned to this land, open immediately.