I didn’t smile back.

I kept my eyes on the exit.

My driver, Carlos, was waiting outside in the warm Dallas night, the black SUV idling near the curb.

The air was thick with the scent of humidity and exhaust.

I climbed into the back seat and closed the door, shutting out the city.

“Home, Carlos,” I said.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, pulling away from the curb.

I leaned my head back against the leather headrest.

My phone buzzed in my lap.

It was an incoming call from an unknown number.

I swiped the screen to answer it.

“Jocelyn,” a man’s voice said.

It wasn’t Graham, and it wasn’t my lawyer.

It was a voice I hadn’t heard in years.

“I hear you’re buying up the neighborhood,” the voice said.

I held the phone tight against my ear.

“Who is this?” I asked.

“An old friend,” the man said.

“And someone who knows exactly what Gloria did with the rest of the money.”

“The money she took from your father.”

The call went dead.

I stared at the black screen as the streetlights of Highland Park flickered past the window.