He turned his eyes to Grant.

“Mr. Whitmore, I suggest you call your criminal defense counsel.”

“We are going to secure a warrant for your personal devices as well.”

Grant stood in the center of the room, looking smaller than I had ever seen him.

The expensive Italian suit looked too large for his shoulders.

The sun was beginning to set over the Pacific, casting long, orange shadows across the conference room table.

The light hit the framed renderings of the Maribel on the wall.

My design. My layout.

The senior living community that was supposed to be my legacy.

“Vivian,” Grant said, turning his eyes to me.

“Please.”

“We built this together.”

“You built it,” I said. “On a foundation of lies.”

“I drew every line of those plans.”

“And you thought you could replace me with a prettier face and a forged signature.”

Grant took a step toward me, but Diane stepped in front of him.

“Do not approach my client, Mr. Whitmore,” Diane said.

Caleb’s phone buzzed in his hand, the vibration loud in the quiet room.

He looked at the screen and sighed.