65I was crouched behind a shelving unit in the supply closet at my office when my husband walked in and did not call my name.

By Saturday afternoon, the city had turned into that particular shade of Toronto gray that makes every brick look wet and every face look tired.

A light freezing drizzle was blowing off the lake, coating the streetcar tracks on King Street with a film of grease. Hugo had spent three hours in the bathroom—shaving with his straight razor, trimming his cuffs, choosing between two ties that were both navy blue but had slightly different diagonal weaves.

"You’re wearing the green?" he asked, coming out into the hall while I was hooking my silver earrings into place.

The dress was hunter green wool with long sleeves and a high, boat-neck collar. It was the dress I had worn to my father’s memorial service three years ago.

"Mom likes it," I said, looking into the mirror.

Hugo frowned slightly, his fingers hovering over his tie knot. "It’s a little... somber for a seventieth, isn't it? What about that red silk one we bought in Montreal?"

"The red one has a broken zipper," I lied. "Besides, green is Dad’s favorite color."

Hugo’s face smoothed out instantly. He smiled that soft, indulgent smile that had become my personal hemlock. "Of course. Sentimental Abby. What would we do without your traditions?"

He patted my cheek, picked up his leather portfolio—the one containing the quitclaim deeds and the transfer authorizations—and tucked it under his arm like a general heading toward a staff meeting.

We took an Uber to *L’Avenue*.

The restaurant was housed in an old limestone bank building near the corner of Bloor and Avenue Road. The private room was on the mezzanine level, reached by a sweeping marble staircase that curved past an immense brass chandelier.

As we reached the top landing, a woman was standing by the coat check.

She was tall, perhaps thirty-five, wearing a double-breasted camel-hair coat that had cost more than my first two years of college tuition. Her blonde hair was cut in a blunt, chin-length bob that exposed two square-cut diamond studs.

"Hugo," she said.

Her voice was low, dry, and immediately familiar. It was the voice from the other end of the phone call while I was crouched behind the twenty-pound boxes of legal paper.

Hugo stopped. For a fraction of a second—a heartbeat so short that only someone who had spent seven years studying his bone structure would have noticed—his jaw tightened.

"Lena," he said. He didn't step back, but his left hand shifted his portfolio behind his hip. "I thought you were in Montreal until Monday."

"The zoning committee moved the preliminary hearing to Tuesday morning," she said, her eyes drifting past Hugo’s shoulder to land on me with the cool, appraising squint of an art dealer looking at a damaged canvas. "I had to review the lateral permits with the surveyor."

She extended a gloved hand toward me. Her leather was butter-soft, smelling of brand-new car interiors.

"You must be Abigail. Hugo talks about your... devotion to the family constantly."

"Does he?" I asked, taking her hand. I didn't squeeze, and I didn't pull away. I let my fingers rest against her glove until she was the one who had to break the contact. "He hasn't mentioned you nearly as much, Miss Vance. Just that you were aggressive on heritage lots."

Lena’s eyebrows rose an eighth of an inch. A tiny, amused smirk pulled at the left corner of her plum-colored mouth. She glanced at Hugo as if to say: *I thought you said she was a mouse.*

"Real estate in this town requires a certain lack of sentimentality," Lena said smoothly. "If you don't build the future, the past just falls down on your head anyway."

"Some things are built to stay up," I replied.

Hugo stepped between us with a laugh that sounded like dry gravel being shifted with a shovel. "Lena’s firm is consulting on some of our commercial transitions, Abs. She’s just dropping off some city documents before she heads back to Yorkville."

"Of course," Lena said, checking a tiny gold watch that had no numbers on its face. "I won't interrupt your family gathering. Good luck tonight, Hugo. Make sure you get the... signatures in order. The city desk closes at five on Monday."

She turned on her heel and walked down the marble stairs. Her heels clicked with a steady, military precision that echoed off the limestone vaulting.

Hugo watched her go for one long second, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. Then he turned to me, his smile wider than ever.

"Fierce woman," he said, shaking his head. "Tough as nails. Glad she’s on our side of the table and not the city's. Come on—Aunt Frances is already here. I can hear her complaining about the parking from the hallway."

I touched the black silk clutch under my arm. The metal corners of the USB drive inside were hard through the fabric.