The next morning, the heat in Dallas was already stifling by eight o’clock.

I was in the kitchen making school lunches for the girls when Graham walked in.

He looked like he hadn’t slept at all.

His hair was uncombed, and his linen shirt was wrinkled.

“I need the deed to the house,” he said without greeting me.

I stopped spreading the peanut butter on the bread.

“The deed?” I asked, turning to face him. “Why would you need that?”

“I’m restructuring some of my personal investments,” he said, pouring himself a cup of black coffee.

His hand shook, spilling a few dark drops onto the white quartz countertop.

“The house belongs to the family trust, Graham,” I said, pretending to be confused.

“I know that,” he snapped. “But I need the physical paperwork. Or the trust agreement.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I’m taking out a short-term equity loan,” he said, looking at the floor. “Just to bridge the gap until the quarterly distributions.”

He was trying to sound casual, but his voice was too high.

“A loan against the house?” I asked. “Does Gloria know about this?”