Three Suitcases Left in the Rain and Nineteen Million Dollars in Cancun
A silver coffee pot sat on the sideboard in the corner of the lobby, its heavy handle starting to tarnish to a dull gray near the hinge. I sat on the very edge of the deep leather sofa to keep from sinking, my fingers turning my gold wedding band round and round. The office of Higgins and Associates was always too quiet, the sort of silence that smelled of old leather books, damp raincoats, and lemon wax. Through the tall glass windows, the gray Houston autumn was settling in, turning the live oaks on the street below into dark silhouettes against the concrete.
Frank Higgins opened his heavy oak office door at ten past ten, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses with a quick tap of his index finger. He did not smile, but his eyes were steady and kind behind the thick lenses. He held the door open with one hand, his posture straight despite the years he had spent hunched over legal briefs.
“Come inside, Cassandra,” Frank said, his voice carrying that slow, legalistic cadence that always made me feel as if time had slowed down.
