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Maggie Martin settled herself in the back of the cab as the driver pulled away from the airport and into the thin sunshine of a late February afternoon. She nodded when he leaned back to tell her that Westbury was an hour’s drive, and turned her attention to the countryside streaming by her window. She was in no mood for idle chatter with a taxi driver. The dormant farmland lay still and expectant. Occasional clumps of leafless trees were silhouetted against the storm clouds that soon filled the sky. Maggie was glad she had carefully folded and packed those extra sweaters. She shivered in spite of the heat blasting from the vents and wondered how anyone could live in a cold climate. Southern California might not have four seasons, but who in their right mind wanted winter? Maggie chastised herself once again for even making this trip. She was behind in her work—she needed the billings—and she probably wouldn’t find any answers, anyway. As the monotonous scenery sped by, Maggie relived her final moments with Paul in the cardiac ICU. Wired and tubed, he was hooked up to the best equipment modern medicine had to offer. Their children, Mike and Susan, were both frantically making their way through traffic, but neither arrived in time. It had been Maggie and Paul at the very end. In his final moments, Paul rallied. He feebly squeezed Maggie’s hand and repeated breathlessly, “Sorry. So sorry. House is for you.” At least, that’s what she thought he said. She had been crying, and the beeping monitors and wheezing oxygen machine made it impossible to hear. She had been over this a million times. It hadn’t made any sense because she knew their house was hers. Hadn’t they just paid it off and thrown a burn-the-mortgage party with the kids? She had tried to reassure Paul, to quiet him, but he had been desperate to make his point. Maggie now understood Paul’s deathbed confession. That’s why she had decided to come to Rosemont before she listed it for sale. She needed to get answers; to make some sense of her life. Maggie planned to go straight to her hotel in Westbury to try to get a good night’s sleep before she and the realtor toured the house and signed the listing papers the next day. But her plane had arrived forty-five minutes early, the only advantage of the bumpy flight through strong tailwinds. God knows she was exhausted, having spent another sleepless night rehashing her sham of a marriage. But she was far too curious to get a glimpse of Rosemont to wait any longer. As they passed the highway sign announcing the Westbury exit fourteen miles ahead, Maggie retrieved her house key from the zippered compartment of her purse, leaned forward, and instructed the driver to take her directly to Rosemont. The cabbie, as it turned out, didn’t need directions. “Everybody in these parts knows the place,” he assured her. “It’s been vacant for years,” he continued as he caught her eye in his rearview mirror. “Do you know the owner?” “I am the owner,” Maggie replied with an assurance in her voice that surprised her. “Actually, I just inherited Rosemont. I’m going to put it on the market, but I’m awfully curious to see it. Since it’ll still be light when we get there, I thought I’d like to see it on my own, before the realtor and I get together tomorrow.” The cabbie nodded slowly, digesting this news, as he flipped on his left-turn signal and turned into a long, tree-lined drive that wound its way up a steep hill. They rounded the final corner and Maggie gasped. At the end of a deep lawn was an elegant manor house of aristocratic proportions. Built of warm limestone, with regal multi-paned windows, a sharply pitched tile roof, and six chimneys, Rosemont had the kind of gracious good looks that never go out of style. Dazed, she handed him his fare, with a more-than-generous tip, and secured his promise to drop her luggage at her hotel and return for her in an hour. Maggie dashed through the now falling sleet to the massive front door. The key fit smoothly into the lock but wouldn’t turn. She tugged and jiggled the handle, to no effect. It wasn’t moving. Maggie looked wistfully over her shoulder as the taxi took the last turn at the end of the drive and vanished beyond the trees. Why did she have to insist on coming here tonight? Impatience did her in every time. She buttoned the top button of her coat, fished the cabbie’s card out of her pocket, and unzipped her purse to retrieve her phone. She’d have to call him to come back now. It was too cold and damp outside to even walk around and look in the windows. Maggie tugged off one of her gloves with her teeth and punched in his number on her phone. She brought it to her ear and idly tried the lock one more time. She felt something shift under her hand and the sturdy lock yielded. The door creaked open. Maggie abruptly ended the call and stepped over the threshold. Even in the gloomy light of a stormy dusk, the beauty of the house overwhelmed Maggie, and she knew, for perhaps the first time in her life, that she was home. And that nothing would ever be the same again. The mahogany front door opened to a foyer that gave way to a generous living room. A stone fireplace with an ornately carved mantel dominated one side of the room, and a graceful stairway swept up the opposite wall to the second floor. An archway led to a room lined with bookcases. An honest-to-goodness library, for Pete’s sake, Maggie thought. She inched forward slowly, like a dog expecting to come to the end of its leash, and peered into the library. Although all of the furniture was draped in heavy muslin covers, the room was stunning with its six-foot-high fireplace, French doors to a patio, and a stained-glass window. “I’ve been transported to a movie set of an English manor house,” Maggie whispered. She set her purse on a round table in the middle of the foyer and unbuttoned her coat. The fatigue and apathy that had been Maggie’s constant companions since Paul’s death began to dissipate as she examined this elegant old house she had inherited. Paul had never mentioned owning an estate on fifteen acres in Westbury. At least not until his final moments. Maggie had learned there were a lot of things that Paul had never mentioned. Unlike the others, this one was a pleasant surprise. The remainder of the first floor was comprised of a large dining room, butler’s pantry, kitchen, breakfast room, laundry, maid’s quarters, and a large, sunny room whose function she couldn’t identify. It had a herringbone tile floor and was lined with floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall. A conservatory, maybe? Holy cow—did she actually own a home with a library and a conservatory? The perfect lines of the house were evident at every turn. With mounting excitement, Maggie found the switch for the chandelier that lit the staircase and raced to the second floor. A spacious landing gave way to six separate bedroom suites. She opened the first door carefully and proceeded with increasing confidence. Each suite was lovely and distinct in its own way, with huge windows and a sitting room and bathroom for each bedroom. One had a balcony, two had fireplaces. “I actually own this place,” she murmured to herself in shock. She was considering which bedroom she liked best when she thought she heard a door close below. Was it already time for the taxi to return for her? Could she possibly have been here for an hour? Maggie tore down the stairs as surely as if she had been running down them all of her life and came face to face with a solidly built man wearing tidy work clothes. With a pounding heart but steady voice, Maggie demanded to know who he was and how he got into her house. He stepped back and held up his hands. “I’m sorry to startle you, ma’am. I’m Sam Torres. Your realtor expected you tomorrow, and he asked me to come by today to air the house out a bit and make sure that everything was in working order. I’ve been in the basement for the past three hours fiddling with the furnace. I’ve got it going now. I’m surprised we didn’t hear each other. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He paused a moment to wipe his hands on a rag. He was never very good at guessing ages; he figured she must be in her fifties, but couldn’t tell which end of that age range she leaned to. She was wrapped in a down-filled coat and wore those enormous Australian boots that were so popular. His wife lived in hers from October to May. She had a pair of glasses perched on her nose and was now regarding him imperiously through them. “Welcome to Rosemont,” he continued. “I understand you plan to put it on the market right away?” Something about his polite, calm manner soon put her at ease. Judging by his weathered skin and full head of gray hair, she guessed he must be a few years her senior. She extended her hand to introduce herself and told him that she was most definitely not going to sell this place. Sam looked at her sharply and started to reply but stopped himself. Then, to her own astonishment, she announced, “As soon as my taxi returns, I’m going to check out of my hotel and move in here. Tonight. Permanently.” She reached for the banister, as if to steady herself, and turned aside. What are you doing? she thought to herself. You can’t just up and move here. Are you nuts? What do you need with a six-bedroom house? Your family is in California, and so is your work. Maggie glanced back; Sam Torres was regarding her carefully. She wondered if he could sense that her decision to move into the house that night had been made impetuously on the spot. “In that case,” he said, “I’d better give you a complete tour. You’ll need to know where all the entrances, switches, and thermostats are located.” He gestured toward the library and began by showing her how to unlock and open the cantankerous old French doors. Sam nodded in the direction of the fireplace. “You won’t want to start a fire until all of these chimneys have been cleaned and checked. This house hasn’t been lived in for more than a decade.” Sam paused and turned to Maggie. “Are you sure you want to move in here tonight? Once the plumbing is in use again, you’ll find almost everything leaks. And the place hasn’t been cleaned in years. Wouldn’t you like to get it fixed up first?” “No, I can live with all of that for a few days. As long as the furnace works and the electricity and water are turned on, I can cope.” “This sleet is supposed to turn to snow. You might get stranded up here,” he cautioned as he produced a business card that read, “Sam the Handyman.” “Here’s my card. My cell phone number is on there. Why don’t you call me when you get back tonight, and I can stop by to make sure that the furnace is still running and you’re all set?” he offered. “Thank you—very kind of you—but no need to drag out here later. I’ll be fine,” Maggie assured him with a confidence she didn’t feel. For some reason, she felt completely comfortable with this concerned stranger. “Truthfully, this is a rash decision on my part.” Sam nodded. “I can’t explain it. I’ve never done anything like this in my entire life. But every fiber of my being tells me this is the right thing to do. For once in my adult life, I’m going to follow my intuition.” Sam regarded Maggie intently, and a slow smile lightened his worried expression. “In that case, moving in is exactly what you should do. Sounds like divine intuition. You should follow it. And you can always call me if anything comes up. My wife and I live about ten minutes away.” “Thank you, Sam. That makes me feel more comfortable.” As they resumed their tour, Maggie was secretly relieved that Sam was making sure all the windows and doors were locked and all the thermostats were set. His instructions were thorough and helpful. It was evident that he knew the house well. The first floor had warmed to room temperature by the time they returned to the front door. “I appreciate all you’ve done,” Maggie said. “I’m not a dab hand at home repairs, so I’m sure I’ll need your help on a regular basis. What do I owe you for today?” she asked as she turned toward her purse. “Don’t worry about that now,” Sam said as he reached for the door. “We can settle up later. Would you like me to have the driveway plowed tomorrow?” She gratefully accepted. They said goodnight, and he headed out the door. *** Later, in the eerie brightness of the nighttime snowstorm, Maggie and the taxi driver wrestled her suitcases and three bags of groceries to her front door. The driver helped her get them all inside and cautiously inquired if she would be okay there. She assured him she would be just fine, but she knew he doubted it, and, frankly, so did she. He had glanced at her in his rearview mirror occasionally on the drive out there and must have seen the waves of emotion surging through her. She went from feeling confident, intuitive, courageous, and spontaneous one moment to terrified, impulsive, incompetent, and irrational the next. She was known for her levelheaded, depend-able (and ultimately predictable) nature. Paul said he never wondered what she was thinking, and her kids swore they knew what she would say before she said it—and they were usually right. At times Maggie felt proud of this—she was understood, knowable, transparent. At other times, she felt dull and unimaginative. Well—this decision would surely make jaws drop. As the taxi crept up the driveway toward her new life, fear and doubt were gaining the upper hand. She cleared her throat and was about to instruct the driver to take her back to the hotel when they again rounded the corner, and there it was. The house. Her house. Imposing, dependable, welcoming, strong. She would craft a happy future here. She paid the driver, walked up the stone steps, and shut and locked the front door behind her. She toyed with the idea of phoning one of her children to let them know she changed her plans but decided against it. They could call her cell if they needed her. She wanted to savor her brave decision and her first night in her new home without the intrusion of their opinions. Maggie picked up her groceries and headed in the direction of the kitchen. Dusty and in need of a thorough cleaning to be sure, but what a glorious kitchen! Beautiful walnut cabinets adorned with furniture-maker details soared to the twelve-foot ceiling. A huge window over the antique French sink and a smaller window over an old-fashioned copper vegetable sink would make the room irresistibly cheerful in daytime. The appliances and fixtures were outdated and would need to be replaced, but it was still the most beautiful kitchen she had ever seen—much less owned. People will really have high expectations of a meal fixed here, she mused. I used to be such a good cook. I wonder if I can still muster up anything that does justice to this kitchen? I’ll practice and get back on my game, she decided with a bit of her characteristic determination. Maggie stashed her groceries and dug into the rotisserie chicken and coleslaw that she bought for her dinner. She began a systematic reconnaissance of the kitchen. To her delight, it was equipped with every specialty pot, pan, and utensil imaginable. I’ve been lusting after some of this stuff in catalogs for years, she thought. What great fun to cook in this kitchen. Along one wall was an enormous antique hutch. Maggie found it contained five complete sets of china, including specialty pieces like eggcups, double-handled soup bowls, and tureens. She recognized Colombia Enamel by Wedgwood and Botanic Garden by Portmeirion, but had to check the bottom of a plate to see that she had place settings for twelve of Derby Panel by Royal Crown Derby and a lovely blue-rimmed favorite called Autumn by Lenox. A set of cheerful yellow Fiestaware completed the collection. Good Lord—she felt faint. Maggie was a self-described china addict; now she had the collection to prove it. She vowed to use the good dishes every day. Maggie made herself tea in a Wedgwood cup and wandered through the house to find a place to tuck herself away to enjoy it. The long day had taken its toll; she was exhausted. As she passed through the archway into the library, she found an overstuffed chair in the moonlight by the French doors and knew she had found her spot. Maggie dragged the sheet off the chair with one hand while waving away a cloud of dust with the other and settled into the chair’s protective embrace. An unblemished blanket of snow in the garden looked like frosting on a cake. At least four inches already, and it was still coming down hard. For the first time in months, everything around Maggie was quiet and still, and she felt peaceful. Thoughts of Paul were always crowding her, and they gradually settled on her now. Who was the man that she had been married to for over twenty-five years? On the surface, Paul Martin was the charismatic president of Windsor College. Charming and handsome, with a killer smile. And laser focus. When he turned his attention on you, you felt like you were the most interesting and important person in the world. She had felt that way for years; had never doubted his integrity or fidelity. Mike and Susan, now both grown and out of the nest, adored their father. Paul’s unexpected death at the age of sixty-two had unearthed a number of betrayals. Were there others yet undiscovered? He evidently thought he had plenty of time to cover his tracks. Now Maggie was left to cope with it all. The first shoe to drop was his embezzlement from the college. The interim president discovered suspicious receipts in Paul’s desk, receipts that he had been careless enough to leave sitting in a drawer. An audit was hastily done and the results discreetly fed to her. Paul had been submitting fraudulent expenses as far back as they could trace, in excess of two million dollars. Where in the world had he been spending all of this money? At first, Maggie wondered if Paul had a gambling problem. As she pored through the college’s audit, however, it became very clear that the money was being spent in one location: Scottsdale, Arizona. And another fresh hell was born. She would never forget that day, last September, when she had summoned the courage to uncover the identity of the other woman. Her short flight had been turbulent, and wedged into a middle seat between an overweight man with a dripping nose and a sprawling teenager; she was queasy by the time they landed. Taxiing to the gate seemed interminable. She snatched her carry-on from the seatback in front of her the moment they came to a stop, and shoved past the teen, jostling the woman in the seat across the aisle as she attempted to stand up. “Getting a bit claustrophobic in there,” she muttered in a half-hearted apology. The woman huffed and fixed Maggie with an icy stare. She didn’t care what anyone thought; she needed to get off of that damn plane. The line in front of her inched along to the door. Why in the hell were people so slow and clumsy with their luggage? Why did they insist on stuffing bags into the overhead bins that they couldn’t handle on their own? Just breathe deeply, she told herself. The rental car was waiting for her. Thank goodness for the perks of being a frequent traveler. She settled into the seat and turned the air conditioner on full blast. Maggie fumbled in her purse for the report the private investigator had given her. She double-checked the address, but didn’t need to; it was seared into her heart. Maggie punched it into the GPS system, adjusted her mirrors, and began her journey. It was only ten o’clock in the morning, but near-record temperatures were predicted and heat waves shimmered off the highway. The GPS was reliable, and she was close to the address in under thirty minutes. Maggie decided she needed something to drink and turned into a convenience store to get a giant diet cola and a bottle of cold water. No one was behind her in line, so she took her time fishing out the correct change. Now that she was here, she wasn’t so sure she wanted to pick at this scab. She lingered over the rack of tabloid magazines by the door. What was the matter with her? She was just going to drive by a house. She probably wouldn’t even see “her.” She had come all of this way—she needed to hitch up her britches and do this thing. Maggie coiled herself into the now oven-like car and burned her hands as she grasped the steering wheel. She took a long pull on her diet cola and set off once more. She drove slowly as the ascending street numbers indicated she was getting close. Undeniably a swanky neighborhood, she brooded. Nicer than ours. Spacious, new stucco homes with red-tile roofs and soaring arches. Intricate iron gates and ornate light fixtures. Manicured lawns tended by efficient landscapers. No signs of life on this oppressive day. Everyone was safely tucked away. And there it was. Bigger than the rest—or was she imaging that? It was unquestionably the nicest house on the street. Bile rose in Maggie’s throat. If you had lined up photos of all of the houses on that street and asked her which one Paul would have selected, Maggie knew it would have been this house. More grand than their home in California. Maggie drifted across the centerline and caught herself before she hit the other curb. Thank God she was the only car on the street. She needed to get hold of herself; she didn’t want to get into an accident right outside the other woman’s house. How cliché would that be? She was acting like a stalker, for goodness sake. No one could ever know she had done this. She turned around in a driveway five houses down and drove past to view it from the other direction. It looked even better. That bastard. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel and turned the car around again, trying to find a shady spot along the curb where she could discreetly watch the house. A couple of palm trees provided the only shade available, and she pulled to the curb. The air conditioning was no match for the midday sun, and she felt like one of the ants that her brother would fry under a magnifying glass on the sidewalk when they were kids. Why in the world had Paul done this? Why hadn’t they just divorced? Was he that concerned about the effect it would have on his career? Divorce wasn’t a stigma anymore. And he evidently had plenty of money, so splitting what they had in California wouldn’t have posed a problem. Surely he knew that she would never have gone digging for more. Or was he addicted to the thrill of living a secret life? She instinctively knew she had hit the mark dead center. Her soda was long gone and she was taking the last swig of water, chiding herself that it was demeaning to be sweltering in a rental car outside of the other woman’s house—then she appeared. Maggie crouched over the dashboard, the air conditioning blasting her hair out of her face, and focused on the other woman like a laser. Tall, thin, and pretty—with shoulder-length blond hair and long, tanned legs—she was laughing with two school-aged children as she herded them into her Escalade. She pulled out of the driveway and glanced in Maggie’s direction as she turned to say something to the children in the backseat. Maggie clutched the steering wheel as nausea overwhelmed her. She tried unsuccessfully to choke it back and grabbed frantically for the empty soda cup and heaved violently. Sweating profusely, she fumbled in her purse for some tissues and a breath mint. The tears she had been holding back for months now broke free. This had been a stupid, crazy thing to do. Why had she expected it to turn out differently? She was a mess. Vomit on her cuff and in her hair. The last thing she wanted to do was spend the day here and get back on a plane later. To hell with the one-way drop-off charge for the rental car. It was only a six-hour drive. She’d be in her driveway about the same time as her scheduled flight was supposed to land. And she wouldn’t have to see anyone or talk to anyone along the way. She swung the car around and set her course for home. The minute she uncovered the Scottsdale connection, Maggie had a gut feeling about what she would find. Paul had supported a second family there. The investigator found that the two children weren’t Paul’s, thank God. But it had been a long-standing relationship and by the looks of the financial records, he had been supporting her handsomely. The most difficult part of Maggie’s situation was bearing this knowledge alone; she dared not confide in anyone she knew. Paul had been acting strangely after he took the post at Windsor College eight years ago. And Maggie had done her best to contrive an innocent explanation and rationalize Paul’s odd behavior. But everything now made sense: the weekends away, when he was ostensibly too tied up in “strategic planning sessions” to call home; his trendy new wardrobe and haircut; and his younger, more “hip” vocabulary. When Susan pointed this out, Paul laughed and passed them off as his way of relating to the student body. He had also become increasingly critical of Maggie’s blossoming consulting business as a forensic accountant. At first, she believed he was genuinely concerned she was taking on too much and spreading herself too thin. He was emphatic that he needed her by his side for the numerous social engagements required by his position. Somewhere along the way she realized that he resented her success and her growing independence from him. Paul loved to tell his amusing little story about meeting the shy, studious, plain girl in college and turning her into the beautiful, polished, accomplished woman she was now; that their love story was a modern-day My Fair Lady. Ugh! She might not have been a sophisticate, but she hadn’t been a country bumpkin, either. Even Eliza Doolittle outgrew the tutelage of Professor Higgins. The turning point in their relationship was that horrible fight about the black-tie fundraiser he wanted to chair. He would turn up at the event in his tuxedo and make a nice podium speech, and she would work tirelessly on it for almost a year. She had begged him not to volunteer, told him that she simply didn’t have the time, that just this once she needed to focus on herself first. She was about to land a lucrative expert witness engagement she had worked so hard to get. It was a fascinating case and would demand all of her time. And would undoubtedly lead to more such work. She simply could not turn it down. Paul had railed that he couldn’t turn the fundraiser down, either. He started on his usual refrain of “whose job pays more of the bills around here” when Maggie quietly pointed out that her income had exceeded his for several years. For the first time in their more than twenty years of marriage, Maggie had put her foot down and told Paul no. Paul had exploded and they had gone to bed angry. This time, however, Maggie didn’t give in or apologize just to keep the peace. They didn’t speak for a week. When they tentatively resumed communication, Paul was derisive and demeaning, constantly criticizing Maggie in matters both large and small. But his opinion of her appearance, her job, and her social skills didn’t matter much to her anymore. Maggie’s friend Helen summed it up nicely: Paul had lost control of Maggie and he didn’t like it. She had half-heartedly defended Paul, saying he was a leader and not a control freak, but she knew Helen was right. Her lawyer negotiated a settlement of the college’s claim against Paul’s estate in exchange for his million-dollar life insurance policy. The board of regents hadn’t been anxious to have their lax oversight of the college’s finances exposed, and Maggie didn’t want Mike and Susan hurt by a public discrediting of Paul’s memory. She needed to get to the bottom of the mystery that was Paul Martin before she brought Mike and Susan into this nightmare. Maggie hired a private investigator that quickly uncovered the truth. Revisiting these horribly hurtful revelations—so frustrating because Paul was not there to question, cross-examine, rage at—was like watching a tornado relentlessly obliterate her lovingly crafted life. The pain, loss, and desolation were constant companions. But tonight, sunk into this massive chair within the perfect stillness, Maggie removed herself from the starring role and felt like she was watching someone else’s tragedy. She let her mind go blank and watched the snow slanting down across the trees outside her window. And she surrendered to a deep and dreamless sleep. *** Having his office above his liquor store had its advantages; Chuck Delgado was well into the bottle of Jameson he grabbed from be-hind the counter as he waited for Frank Haynes to arrive on this Godforsaken night. Shortly after two in the morning, someone tapped quietly on the back door below. Delgado checked the security camera and buzzed him up. Haynes firmly climbed the steps into Delgado’s lair and found him slumped in his chair just outside the pool of light supplied by the green-shaded lamp on his desk. Haynes scanned the room, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimness. The rest of the room was in shadow, and Haynes was glad of it. He didn’t care to be accosted by Delgado’s collection of crude, pornographic trinkets and toys. Delgado shoved the open bottle and a highball glass in his direction. Haynes firmly declined. He didn’t need to get lightheaded now, and God knows when that glass had last been washed. He cast a dubious glance at the two chairs across the desk from Delgado, and moved a stack of newspapers and a hamburger wrapper onto the floor. At least he’s eating at one of my restaurants, he thought. They regarded each other intently. Haynes remained silent. Delgado nursed his drink and Haynes sat, brooding and impassive. Delgado finally sucked in a deep breath and began. “Okay, Frank, here’s the thing. We ran into an unexpected situation.” Haynes raised an eyebrow. “Not with anything here. Operations in Westbury are fine. In Florida. It’s hard to keep your finger on things from a distance. I sent Wheeler down to check on things, but the bastard spent all his time with the whores in the condos. I understand a guy’s gotta have fun, but he didn’t do jack shit down there. Bastard lied to me when he got back. If this all goes down, he deserves to take the fall.” Delgado gave a satisfied nod and sank back into his chair. Haynes leaned rigidly forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and locked Delgado with his glare. He waited until Delgado, hand shaking, set his drink down. “We aren’t going to let this ‘all go down,’ Charles, now are we? We aren’t going to let that happen. We had plenty of cushion built in to survive even the Recession. If you hadn’t dipped your hand in the till, we wouldn’t be having this unfortunate conversation.” “I had stuff to take care of. Those cops down there are expensive and—” Haynes slammed a fist on the desk and roared, “Silence! I don’t care what situation you got your sorry ass into. You know that you were not to bring your sordid business interests into our arrangement. Those condos were supposed to be legitimate investments, not whore houses or meth labs or whatever other Godforsaken activities you’ve got going in them.” Delgado held up a hand in a gesture of surrender. “You’re right, Frank, I know you are. But stuff happens. I’ll get this figured out. I may have buyers for a couple of the condos. And I’m expecting money from another associate next week. Enough to fund the shortfall in the next pension payments. Don’t go gettin’ yourself into an uproar. We’ll get things straightened out. I’m on it,” he slurred. “You’ve got ten days to get this handled,” Haynes growled. “I’m going to watch your every move from here on in. You won’t want to disappoint me.” His tone sent a wave of fear and dread through Delgado. Haynes rose slowly, turned on his heel, and walked down the stairs, allowing the echo of his steps to recede before he opened the back door and was swallowed by the night. Delgado held his breath until he could no longer hear Haynes’ car retreating. “That guy is seriously unhinged.” He reached for the bottle and didn’t bother with a glass. Continue reading for free in Kindle Unlimited... eBook: https://amzn.to/3HSJUng Print: https://amazon.com/dp/0996274723 Audiobook: https://amazon.com/dp/B01N4R2TEW