This room was a shrine.

“You’re a Freemason,” I said to Prescott. “And a member of the Knights Templar.”

“I am,” he said. “I have been for over seventy years. You didn’t know?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t think anyone who was a Mason spoke much about it. You’re rather secretive.”

My father had never become a Freemason for one fundamental reason that I recalled: Masons had to believe in God or something called a “Higher Power.” Leland thought God, or any kind of Supreme Being for that matter, was a lot of hogwash. And he believed that when you died, you died.

“We’re not a cult,” Prescott said in a dry voice. “In spite of what some people believe.”

I nodded and tried to keep my face expressionless. Maybe not a cult, but what I did know about the Masons, or thought I did, was that it was a male-only organization where members greeted each other with secret handshakes, dressed up in elaborate garb for ritual-filled ceremonies that dated back to Biblical times, and never, ever talked about what they did at their meetings.

“Do you meet in this room?” I asked.

“Good Lord, no. This is most definitely not a Masonic lodge. We don’t meet in anyone’s home.”

“Then why are we here?” I asked. “Why am I here?”

“Because there is something I want you to see. I’ve not even told my family about it yet.” For a moment a pained look flashed across his face. “I’ll only get reprimanded for spending—or should I say, ‘wasting’—what Clayton seems to believe is his money. His inheritance. You see, my stepson doesn’t share my penchant for continuing to collect rare and beautiful things. My grandchildren aren’t especially happy about it, either.” He tapped the side of his head. “They think I’m starting to lose it.”

For Prescott Avery, billionaire philanthropist, the man who controlled one of the largest media empires in the United States, who had everything he wanted in life, it was an astonishing, breathtaking admission. Why was he saying this now?

And why was he telling me?

“What do you mean?”

“That I’m chasing—what does Clayton call them—‘unicorns’ that are more the stuff of myth and legend than real, tangible things.”

“Such as?”

Prescott gave me a knowing smile and a shrewd look, as if he’d caught himself telling tales out of school to the wrong person. “Sorry, darlin’, I’m not trying to involve you in family politics. Just a bit of venting, is all. I shouldn’t have ’fessed up about any of that. Be a good girl and forget about it, okay?”

If anyone else had asked me to “be a good girl” I would not have let it pass. Besides, I wanted to know what, exactly, were the unicorns he was chasing. Instead I said, “I know about families and money, Prescott.”