kitchen island with Marcus, his investor, eating takeout.
He had ordered food for two.
“There she is,” Daniel said. “Is your mother finished performing?”
“Resting.”
I hung up my coat.
“What’s Harbor House Living?”
His fork stopped.
Marcus looked between us.
“A venture,” Daniel said. “Nothing you’d understand.”
The deck showed a renovated boutique building, projected rental income, and a letter bearing Mom’s signature.
It claimed she had agreed to sell her apartments to Daniel’s company for a fraction of their value.
The signature looked believable until I enlarged it.
