“My late husband built a foundation that will outlast both of us.”

“Then why does the bank require a personal signature now?” I asked.

She leaned back, her silk scarf shifting against her throat.

“Because banks have become bureaucratic and tedious since the regional collapse,” she said.

“They want signatures on everything. It is a formality to satisfy some mid-level auditor in Houston.”

She was looking at the small brass clock on my shelf, avoiding my eyes.

“We need the signature by tomorrow morning,” she added.

“And why bring it to me instead of taking it directly to Graham’s office?” I asked.

Gloria’s face tightened, a tiny muscle in her jaw pulsing.

“Graham is… occupied today,” she said.

“He has meetings in Fort Worth. I thought it would be simpler if you had it ready for him when he got home.”

“I see,” I said.

I knew Graham was not in Fort Worth.

My office had received a notification three hours ago that his commercial lease on the Oak Lawn office suite was four months in arrears.