Sarah had been Margaret’s business partner before the firm was sold, and she had the kind of mind that could turn a messy situation into a clean set of consequences. Over the years, she had become one of the most formidable real estate developers on the East Coast. She knew which buyers had cash, which deals could close fast, which properties had value hidden under bad paint and worse decisions.
“Henry,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight.”
“I need you to move on the Maple Street house.”
A pause.
“Leonard and Lucy’s house?”
“My house,” I said.
Another pause.
Then, quieter, “What happened?”
“I’ll send you a photo.”
I did.
For several seconds, the line was silent.
When Sarah spoke again, her voice had changed.
“How fast do you want them out?”
“Fast.”
“I can have cash buyers by tomorrow afternoon. That neighborhood is hot. If we price it properly, we’ll have competing offers.”
“I don’t want properly. I want immediate possession.”
“Then we take the cleanest offer, not necessarily the highest.”
“I want both.”
Sarah gave a short laugh.
“There he is.”
“I’m not joking.”
“I know.” Papers rustled on her end. “I’ll make calls tonight.”
After Sarah, I called James again and confirmed the meeting. Then I called my financial adviser, who sounded less surprised than he should have. Men who manage money for a living understand that families can become more dangerous than markets. Finally, I called the travel agent Margaret and I had used years ago, back when we still believed we had time to see everything.
“Mr. Holloway,” she said warmly. “It’s been a while.”
“I need to make use of an old plan.”
“The Italy file?”
My throat tightened.
“Yes.”
There was a soft intake of breath. She remembered Margaret. Everyone remembered Margaret.
“When would you like to leave?”
“Soon.”
“How soon?”
I looked around the apartment they thought was all I had left.
“Before Monday.”
The next morning, I dressed carefully.
Not well. Carefully.
I put on the worn cardigan Lucy hated, the discount-store slacks, the old brown shoes. I wanted to look exactly like the man they thought they had reduced me to. The bruise on my cheek had deepened overnight, purple near the jaw, red at the center. I did not cover it.
James Morrison’s law office occupied the thirty-second floor of a glass building downtown, the sort of place with a security desk, marble walls, and elevators that rose so smoothly you barely felt yourself leaving the ground. The receptionist looked startled when I stepped out. I could see myself reflected in the polished surface behind her: an old man in cheap clothes with a bruised face.
Perfect.
James came out personally.
His expression tightened the moment he saw me.
“Henry.”
“My daughter-in-law happened.”
He guided me into his office and closed the door.
James had been our attorney for more than twenty years. He had watched Leonard grow up. He had attended Margaret’s funeral and stood near the back, crying quietly when he thought no one saw. His office was elegant but not showy, with dark shelves, legal volumes, and a photograph of his grandchildren on the desk.
“Tell me everything,” he said.
So I did.
When I finished, he did not speak for a full minute.
Then he said, “Please tell me you documented the injury.”
“Photos. Medical report. Time-stamped.”
“Good.”