“That can’t be,” he said.
His voice cracked on the last word.
“Why is he here?”
Because Richard Whitmore knew exactly who Julian Cross was.
And he knew exactly why a man like Julian Cross did not arrive uninvited.
He arrived to collect.
Diane looked between the window and her husband with growing confusion.
Evan frowned.
“I’ll handle it,” he said, moving toward the foyer.
“No,” Richard snapped, sharper than I had ever heard him.
The word hit the room like broken glass.
Evan stopped.
The front doorbell rang once.
No second ring.
No impatience.
Just one measured signal.
One of the house staff moved toward the entrance, but Richard barked for everyone to stay where they were.
Then, gathering whatever remained of his composure, he went himself.
I followed at a distance.
So did Diane.
So did Evan.
When Richard opened the door, Julian Cross stood there with two associates behind him and the driver a few steps back.
Up close, he looked less like a businessman and more like the sort of man who had survived war without ever needing to mention it.
