Just then, I heard a loud click on the line.

“Who is that on the phone, Richard?” a sharp, familiar voice demanded in the background.

My father’s voice vanished, replaced by the sound of rustling fabric.

“Sarah?” my mother’s voice came through the receiver, cold and perfectly clear.

“Yes, Mom,” I said, my fingers tightening around the cold metal of my phone.

The autumn wind off the bay carried the smell of damp asphalt and expensive espresso from the cafe next door.

“I was speaking to your father,” she said, her tone sharp and clipped.

“I know,” I said. “He was telling me what you did with the trust account.”

There was a brief pause on the line.

I heard the familiar, rhythmic clicking of her heels on the hardwood floor of her living room miles away.

“It is a family matter, Sarah,” she said.

“It is a business matter, Mom,” I said. “You just tried to wire millions of dollars into our escrow.”

“I am securing our position,” she said, as if she were explaining basic grammar to a child.