I poured the rest of my coffee down the drain and watched the dark liquid disappear.

Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed with a text message from Jerome.

*The executor has officially locked the accounts,* the text read.

*Arthur Pendelton is a traditionalist.

He does not tolerate moral turpitude.*

I typed a quick reply: *Scott just called. He is panicking.*

Jerome’s reply was instant: *Good. Keep your distance. He is going to get desperate.*

I packed my laptop into my leather work bag.

The gray morning light was dim as I walked out to my car.

The air smelled of wet asphalt and dead leaves.

As I drove toward the office, my phone buzzed repeatedly in the cup holder.

I did not look at it until I pulled into the parking garage at Mercer Logistics.

There were three text messages from Scott and one voicemail.

I tapped the screen to read the texts.

*Avery, please. We need to talk. We can work this out.*

The next one was sent two minutes later.

*Answer me. You’re committing financial suicide. If I don’t get the money, you don’t get anything either.*