Without it, his entire business model was a hollow shell.

I walked to the window and looked down at our manicured front lawn.

The automatic sprinkler system hissed quietly, casting a fine mist over the St. Augustine grass.

I had paid for this house.

I had paid for the private school tuition, the country club memberships, and the luxury SUVs.

Graham believed his family’s old name kept us afloat.

He had no idea that the very roof over his head belonged to a holding company I controlled.

The next morning, the Dallas heat was already heavy by nine o’clock.

The sky was a pale, cloudless blue that promised triple-digit temperatures by afternoon.

I drove my modest SUV to the commercial strip center off Preston Road.

This was where I kept my public office.

It was a small, two-room suite sandwiched between a boutique travel agency and a dry cleaner.

The gold lettering on the glass door read *J. Vance Consulting*.

It was a quiet place where I pretended to help local small businesses with their basic bookkeeping.