I knew Bianca’s vulnerabilities; she had a mother in Plano whose medical bills were paid entirely by Bianca’s corporate credit card.

If the firm went under, or if the feds stepped in, Bianca would be the first to break.

“You’re bluffing,” he said.

“Call your attorney,” I said. “Ask him about the filing I made this afternoon.”

Graham reached for his phone again, but his fingers hovered over the screen.

He didn’t dial.

“I built that firm,” he said, his voice cracking. “I made Whitaker-Crane what it is.”

“No,” I said. “Elliot Crane made the firm. You just managed the accounts of people who trusted my family.”

He looked around the empty kitchen, as if realizing for the first time how quiet the house was.

The caterers had long since departed, leaving only the clean, sterile smell of lemon polish.

“Where are you going to go, Graham?” I asked.

“This is my house,” he said. “The deed is in my name.”

“The deed is held by the family trust,” I said. “The trust my grandfather established.”