“I am hanging up now, Mom,” I said.

“If you reject that wire, the escrow fee is non-refundable,” she said. “And I will have to explain to the Herald why my own daughter excluded me.”

“That sounds like your problem,” I said.

“We will talk about this at dinner on Thursday,” she said, her tone suddenly shifting back to her social-hostess register. “I booked a table at the club.”

“I won’t be there,” I said.

“Of course you will,” she said. “Your father already put it in his calendar.”

She hung up before I could answer.

The line went dead, leaving only the hum of traffic on El Camino Real.

I stood there for a long moment, holding the warm phone against my cheek.

My breath came in shallow, uneven intervals.

A block away, a Caltrain horn blasted, a low, mechanical wail that echoed off the glass facades of the nearby offices.

I looked down at the screen.

A new text message from Derek popped up.

*Call me right now,* it read.

I tapped his name and held the phone back to my ear.