The elevator passed the twenty-second floor. My reflection in the brass trim looked almost normal, which made everything feel stranger. "Material," I repeated. "You're calling my father's work material?"
"Daniel, I know this sounds—"
"Do they have the Riverlight collection?"
His silence answered before his words did. "They're loading the cabinets now."
I pressed my free hand against the elevator wall. The Riverlight pieces were eight original furniture works my father had made decades earlier, pieces he'd protected through bankruptcy, illness, and the closing of a neighborhood library that once displayed them. Some people thought they were beautiful. Others thought they were old furniture. To me, they were the closest thing I had to the sound of his voice.
"Tell them to stop," I said.
"I'm trying."
"You're the one who arranged the transfer. Tell them to stop."
"The freight supervisor says the principal signed an authorization, and Colin says Tessa has full authority. That's why I'm calling you. Did you authorize a consignment to Northline Private Collections?"
"No."
"Did you sign a release dated last Thursday?"
"No."
Adrian swore under his breath. "Okay. Don't hang up. I'm going to the supervisor."
The elevator opened into the lobby, but I stayed near the bank of elevators while he spoke to someone on the other end. I heard raised voices, shoes on concrete, a metal door, and Adrian repeating that ownership was disputed. There was a muffled argument about paperwork. Then he returned to the line.