The Quinn front hall never sounded like any other doorway in Havenport. It breathed. The marble underfoot clicked in a measured hush. Portraits watched with lacquered patience. Air, always cool, smelled faintly of lemon oil and something floral—money trying to scent itself human. I felt all that before I felt the faces. I carried one suitcase. Black canvas, neat leather handle, a zipper that didn't complain. It was small enough to be overlooked. Big enough to hold a person who knew what she wanted to keep. "You're punctual," Malcolm said, voice like low coffee. He was behind me, sleeves rolled, the smile he kept for long safeties and bad brawls. Jordan stood to his right, hand on Boden's shoulder. Boden was doing the thing he did when he wanted to look casual but wasn't—shifting weight, chin up. The three of them took up less space than the portraits, but they occupied the room in a way portraits never could. Across the foyer, the Quinns lined up like a corporate gaggle. Angela, all long hair and longer nails, stepped forward before either of the elder Quinns. She wore the Quinn look—tailored, theatrical, an eyebrow permanently arched like a question mark aimed at anyone who dared answer. Her arrival had been smugly timed, as if she'd rehearsed her expression in a mirror back in Geneva. "Welcome home," she said, and she didn't mean it. Her mother made an attempt at a conciliatory smile