The man on the porch slowly turned his head, looking directly down the street toward our truck.

He held his phone to his ear.

My breath fogged the cold passenger-side window of the truck.

“Who hired you?” I asked, my voice shaking despite my effort to keep it steady.

On the porch down the street, Silas Vance took a slow step down the concrete stairs.

“Your parents are very concerned about the future of Northline,” Vance said, his voice flat and clinical through the receiver.

“They want to ensure the legacy is in safe hands.”

“They don’t care about the legacy,” I said, my knuckles white on the phone. “They want the money.”

Vance stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked toward the street again, his eyes dark under the brim of his cap.

“They want what is legally theirs,” Vance replied.

“And my job is to find out if the designated successor is fit to run a multi-million dollar logistics firm.”

Calvin shifted the truck into drive, his hand hovering over the gear shift as he watched Vance.

“Do we go?” Calvin whispered.