The envelope slid onto the polished table. "A letter addressed to Vera," Remy said, voice low, hand resting on the doorframe like he could block the ocean outside with his palm. I didn't move for a beat. The cabin smelled of lemon polish and diesel. I reached for the envelope like it might bite. "Don't open that here," Remy added. "Keep it sealed until we reach the Gibson wing." "I already know what it says," I said. My fingers bent the flap. Paper whispered. "Read it," he ordered. I read without thinking. My voice was flat and fast. "Riverside University has answers. Bring proof. Tonight, pier three, midnight. The letter has photos attached." I froze on photos attached. Remy slid the itinerary onto the table like a shield. His jaw tightened. "Show me," he said. I tapped the corner of the packet. Silver flashed: two blurred Polaroids, one with a white sheet, one with a familiar fold of navy suit. I flipped them. A body in a hospital corridor, a hand with an old ring. Grant's ring with the Gibson crest. The second photo was cropped too tight to be polite, but the dark hair and the laced cuff said everything. "Where did these come from?" Remy asked. "They came with the letter," I said. "They came to me." "Vera—" "I'm 'second son' tonight," I interrupted. "Remember? Public face. The family is watching. If the Gibson Group learns I'm... not who I say I am