The chat went silent for three long minutes.

I could hear the hum of the diner’s refrigerator and the soft clinking of plates in the kitchen.

Harrison was quiet, coloring a picture of a lobster on a paper placemat with a yellow crayon.

“Lydia,” I typed in a text message to my lawyer.

“They are fighting over the unauthorized transfers right now.”

“And someone is outside the diner.”

My phone rang almost immediately.

“Are you in a safe place?” Lydia’s voice was calm, a sharp contrast to the panic rising in my throat.

“I’m inside the diner,” I said, keeping my voice low.

“There’s a dark SUV parked across the street.”

“Did you take a picture of the license plate?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “The windows are tinted and the rain is too heavy.”

“Keep Harrison away from the windows,” Lydia said.

“I’m calling the local police department for a welfare check.”

“Tell them a suspicious vehicle is idling near the business.”

“What about the transfers?” I asked.

“Julian is trying to frame Isabel for the eighty thousand dollars.”

“Let him try,” Lydia said.