Sadie forgot about the cameras.

She forgot about the shirt.

She even forgot she was supposed to be furious.

"What did you just say?"

Julian remained seated.

"Daniel saved my life."

"My uncle Daniel?"

"How many uncles named Daniel do you have?"

"Don't get smart with me."

Martin Doyle, who had just entered the breakfast room, stopped dead.

Nobody, apparently, told Julian Corsini not to get smart with them.

Julian only studied her.

Sadie slapped the photograph onto the table.

"My family was told Daniel ran away."

"That wasn't true."

"He owed money."

"No."

"He was in trouble."

"That part was true."

Sadie stared at him.

Daniel had been the funny uncle.

The one who let her have ice cream before dinner and taught her how to whistle through her fingers.

Then, when Sadie was eighteen, he disappeared.

Her mother refused to discuss him.

Eventually the family story hardened into fact.

Daniel had gotten mixed up with bad people.

Daniel had debts.

Daniel had left.

"Why didn't you tell us?"

"I tried."

Julian stood and crossed to a cabinet.

He removed a thick envelope.

Sadie's mother's name was written across the front.

Kathleen Quinn.

Below it was an address in Somerville where Sadie had lived as a teenager.

Stamped across the envelope in red were two words.

RETURN TO SENDER.

Sadie stared at it.

"My mother sent this back?"

"Every letter."

"How many?"

"Seven."

Sadie looked at him.

Julian's voice remained quiet.

"The last one included my private number. She never called."

Sadie suddenly needed to sit down.

"What happened to Daniel?"

Julian glanced at Martin.

Martin understood immediately.

"I'll clear the room."

"No," Sadie said. "Nobody's clearing anything. You dropped my missing uncle onto the breakfast table between coffee and toast. Start talking."

Julian's jaw tightened.

"Daniel worked at Corsini Shipping."

"Doing what?"

"Inventory and freight documentation."

"And you knew him?"

"Yes."

"How well?"

Julian's eyes went to the photograph.

"Very well."

It was the first answer that sounded personal.

Before Sadie could push further, Ethan Cole appeared in the doorway.

The security technician looked unsettled.

"Mr. Corsini."

"What?"

"We've got another missing item."

Julian went still.

They followed Ethan upstairs.

The missing object was almost insulting.

A recipe card.

It had been kept inside a glass-topped writing desk in Evelyn Corsini's old sitting room.

Sadie read the handwritten title.

Sunday Gravy.

"Someone broke into a mafia mansion for tomato sauce?"

Julian gave her a look.

"What?"

"Don't call it gravy in front of Maggie."

Despite everything, Martin coughed into his fist to hide a laugh.

Ethan opened his tablet.

"Here's the problem. The hallway camera shows nobody entering this room between midnight and six."

"What about the camera inside?" Martin asked.

"Nothing."

"Motion logs?"

"Nothing."

Julian's expression hardened.

"Then someone disabled the system."

"Only for ninety-four seconds."

Sadie felt a chill.

"Someone who knows where the cameras are."

Nobody answered.

They didn't need to.

The thief wasn't breaking into the mansion.

The thief belonged there.

Later that afternoon, Julian called Sadie into his study.

Five photographs lay across his desk.

The stolen objects.

Train ticket.

Tie clip.

Matchbook.

Cuff link.

Record sleeve.

"Why keep these?" Sadie asked.

Julian stood by the window.

"Because Daniel told my mother to."

"Your mother knew him?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Julian hesitated.

That hesitation told Sadie more than his answers had.

"There's something you're not telling me."

"There's a great deal I'm not telling you."

"At least you're honest about being dishonest."

His eyes narrowed.

She crossed her arms.

"What did Daniel save you from?"

Julian looked toward Boston in the distance.

"A warehouse fire."

Sadie waited.

"And?"

"And what?"

"People don't steal twenty-year-old trash because somebody survived a fire."

"No."

"So what are these things?"

Julian turned.

"I don't know."

She didn't believe him.

That evening Sadie called her mother.

Kathleen Quinn was seventy-one now and living in Florida.

When Sadie said Daniel's name, silence came through the phone.

"Mom?"

"Where are you?"

"At work."

"Leave."

Sadie sat straighter.

"What?"

"Leave that house."

"You know who Julian Corsini is?"

Another silence.

"Mom."

"Sadie, listen to me. Whatever they're paying you, leave."

"Julian wrote to you."

Her mother's breathing changed.

"Seven times."

"Don't."

"You sent every letter back."

"I said don't."

"Why?"

Kathleen's voice cracked.

"Because your uncle disappeared after he trusted that family."

The line went dead.

Sadie sat alone for a long time.

At 11:18 that night, someone opened Evelyn Corsini's sitting room.

The security system recorded nothing.

But downstairs, an old motion sensor Martin had forgotten existed registered movement.

Ninety-four seconds later, the room was empty again.

By morning, Julian knew one thing for certain.

Someone inside his house knew exactly what they were looking for.