Bianca’s breath hitched.

She looked around the grand foyer as if looking for an exit, but the walls seemed to be closing in.

The front door behind us rattled.

The heavy brass handle turned slowly.

We all watched it.

The door swung open, letting in a gust of damp, humid Dallas air and the smell of wet asphalt.

A man in a dark grey suit stood on the threshold.

He carried a leather briefcase and had water spotting the shoulders of his coat.

“Good evening,” the man said.

He looked at me, ignoring the rest of the room.

“Am I late, Mrs. Vance?”

“Just in time, Robert,” I said.

“Please come in.”

Robert Miller, my attorney, stepped into the warmth of the foyer and closed the door behind him.

He wiped his feet on the mat, his movements calm and methodical.

Graham stared at Robert, then at me, the reality finally settling into his eyes.

“You set this up,” Graham said.

“You’ve been planning this.”

“I’ve been watching you, Graham,” I corrected him.

“For eighteen months.”

“Every wire transfer, every dinner at the Mansion on Turtle Creek, every flight to Cabo.”