Arthur did not look up immediately. He took off his wire-rimmed glasses and began polishing them with a white silk handkerchief, his movements slow and practiced. The silence stretched between us until he finally cleared his throat, a dry, raspy sound.
“The man you saw in the corridor yesterday was Caleb Vance,” Arthur said, his voice precise and formal. “He is Julian’s only living son.”
I touched the soda can pull tab on my ring finger, rotating it slowly around the knuckle. My skin still felt cold from the walk from the bus stop. “He looked like he was hunting for something.”
“He was,” Arthur said, putting his glasses back on and adjusting them behind his ears. “He is looking for the deed to ninety-two Dearborn Street. Julian was not a penniless man who lived in the back of his shop, Nora. He was a master tailor, and he owned that building outright.”
“The shop is just a dusty storefront,” I said. “It has been closed for months.”
“The shop is on a corner lot in the loop,” Arthur replied. “The land alone is valued at over nineteen million dollars.”
