He listened for another moment, his jaw tightening until the muscle clicked.

The rain continued to fall, filling the silence inside the car.

Graham slowly lowered the phone from his ear, his gaze shifting back to me.

He didn’t say a word.

He turned around and walked back toward his truck, his boots splashing through the deep puddles.

He climbed into the cab and shut the door, the headlights of the truck instantly dimming.

“Why is he backing down?” I asked, watching the truck’s brake lights glow in the dark.

“I don’t know,” Alden said, his breath shaking.

My phone vibrated again, the screen flashing with a new text message from an unknown number.

I unlocked the screen with a wet thumb.

The message was from Harper Sloane, but it contained a forwarded email from Marisol Keene’s personal attorney.

I tapped the attachment.

The document was a revised letter of intent, the digital ink practically still wet.

“She’s raised her bid,” I said, my voice barely audible over the sound of the rain.

“By how much?” Alden asked.

“Three million dollars,” I said. “She’s offering twelve million now.”