She began to write down a list of dates and figures in her notebook.

“He needs the money by the end of the month to stop the asset seizure,” she said.

“That gives him twelve days.”

“If we pretend to negotiate, he will become desperate as the deadline approaches.”

“Desperate people make mistakes.”

I looked at my granddaughter.

She was only sixteen, but she possessed a steel that her father had never owned.

“We cannot risk it, Caroline,” I said. “If we sign anything, even a temporary agreement, he could use it against us.”

“We won’t sign anything,” she said.

“We will just talk.”

“And I will make sure we are recording every word.”

Before I could answer her, the silence of the house was broken again.

This time, it was not the landline.

It was the sound of a car door closing in our driveway.

We both froze.

The headlights of a vehicle swept across the office window, casting long, moving shadows on the wall.

I stood up and walked to the window.

I parted the lace curtains with two fingers.