Heat sat heavy on the Whitman steps, the kind that pressed stone and temper into the same flat line. Sarah descended beside Alex and her father, Mason a half step behind, the ironwork gate ahead yawning toward the road.
They had the apology. They had the sentence that mattered. *As of this morning, Owen is no longer my successor.* Charles Whitman had said it like a man signing a painful check.
“Cars in two," Mason murmured into the air. “Hold at the bottom of the stairs."
Sarah nodded, fingers relaxed on the strap of her bag. The foyer doors whispered shut behind them.
They'd taken four steps when the doors blew open again.
“Sarah!"
Owen came fast, no jacket, shirt open at the throat, hair unsettled like a habit he'd forgotten to maintain. He didn't run—men like him didn't run—but mo
