“Neither do the board members of Northline’s biggest clients.”

The line went dead with a sharp click.

On the sidewalk, Vance turned away from our truck and walked toward a black sedan parked around the corner.

He didn’t look back as the car’s taillights flared in the dim light.

“What did he say?” Calvin asked, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.

“He’s digging,” I said, staring at the empty street where Vance had been standing.

“My parents hired him to paint me as a thief and a financial wreck.”

Calvin cursed under his breath and pulled the truck away from the curb.

The tires crunched on the packed snow as we turned onto the main road toward the office.

We drove in silence, the truck’s heater blowing dry, hot air into our faces.

The high-rise glass of the downtown offices looked like gray ice against the Colorado sky.

In the lobby of the Northline headquarters, the heating system hummed, but it did nothing to take the chill out of my bones.

We took the elevator up to the executive floor, where Malcolm Sayer was waiting in my uncle’s old office.