He reached for his keys on the entryway table, his fingers knocking against a silver tray.

The keys clattered onto the hardwood floor.

He swore under his breath, bending down to retrieve them with a hand that visibly trembled.

“Graham, what is going on with the lease?” I asked, keeping my voice flat and calm.

He straightened up, his face flushed red beneath his fading summer tan.

“Nothing is going on, Jocelyn,” he said, avoiding my eyes.

“That was Marcus,” I said. “He only calls when there’s an issue with the Preston Road property.”

Graham pulled his shoulders back, trying to assume his usual posture of authority.

“It is a minor cash flow issue,” he said. “A temporary delay on a wire transfer.”

“A delay?” I asked. “Or a default?”

He glared at me, his eyes narrowing into slits.

“You don’t know anything about commercial real estate,” he spat.

“I know that if you don’t pay the rent, they lock the doors,” I said.

He stepped closer to me, his breath smelling faintly of the scotch he had poured himself earlier.