Zander
For fourteen years, the envelope had traveled through my life without me knowing it existed.
My mother handed it to me after a flood. I apparently tossed it into a box with things I intended to deal with later, moved that box twice, and eventually shoved it onto a shelf in my penthouse. Somehow, one of the most important pieces of Preston Enterprises’ history had survived because I was terrible at throwing things away.
And recently, someone had found it.
They could have taken it.
They hadn’t.
That bothered me more than if the envelope had disappeared.
“They wanted us to open it,” Gina said.
We were back at the penthouse after Michael’s team cleared it for the second time that night. The black storage container sat on my dining table, surrounded by men wearing gloves. The dig
