Harrison Vance received them in his study the next morning, still in his robe, a cup of untouched tea going cold at his elbow as Alexander laid out what Gavin had found.
"Thorncastle Manufacturing," Harrison repeated slowly, the name clearly dredging up something he hadn't thought about in decades. "Yes. I remember it. A small operation, struggling badly by the time we acquired it. I wasn't running the company day-to-day back then — that was still your grandmother's doing, mostly, with my father's blessing. I only came in for the final signatures."
"Elias Whitfield," Alexander said. "The name mean anything to you?"
Harrison's expression shifted, something old and uncomfortable surfacing. "He ran Thorncastle before us. Proud man. Never forgave the family for what he saw as us picking his
