Three Suitcases Left in the Rain and Nineteen Million Dollars in Cancun
“Do you think she sold it?” Martha asked.
“No,” I said. “She has it hidden in her closet. She thinks it is hers now.”
I set the pen down and took a slow sip of the tea, the warmth spreading through my chest. The mahogany table was polished to a high shine, reflecting the gray sky outside.
“Frank wants us at his office by eleven,” I said.
“I will drive,” Martha said, already moving toward the hallway to find her keys. “We do not want Sable seeing your car parked near his building.”
The brass letters on Frank Higgins’ office door were slightly tarnished, showing the age of the firm. Inside his private room, the heavy green drapes were drawn against the mid-morning Houston sun, leaving the room in a cool, quiet shadow.
Frank sat behind his desk, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses as he looked over the three blue folders laid out in a neat row before him.
“This is the bank draft for the thirty-five hundred dollar appraisal fee,” Frank said, sliding a green paper slip toward me. “It has been cleared by the bank, which officially initiates the forensic audit under the primary trust terms.”
