“Who are they?”
“Not a bank.”
That was all Howard said. It was all he needed to say.
I had spent forty years around money. I knew respectable money, hungry money, and quiet money that smelled faintly of cigar smoke and offshore accounts. Kessler sounded like the kind that didn’t send polite reminders.
“What did he put up?”
Howard’s face tightened. “The house.”
“He couldn’t.”
“He didn’t, legally. But he represented that he had beneficial ownership and that
the title transfer was pending.”
“He lied.”
“Yes.”
“And they believed him?”
“They believed the lifestyle. They believed the address. They believed your last name.”
I laughed once, without humor. The boy had built a castle out of borrowed mirrors and called himself king. Now the mirrors were breaking.
My phone buzzed. Trevor. I didn’t answer. It buzzed again. Kristen. Then a number I didn’t recognize.
