“Used to?”
“She left.”
Geoffrey’s breathing had changed.
He looked through the pages again.
“I didn’t know about this.”
I studied him.
Thirty-seven years of being his father should have made the answer obvious.
It did not.
People think parents always know when their children are lying.
We don’t.
We know the versions of them we remember.
We know their childhood habits.
Their nervous smiles.
The way they avoid eye contact.
But adults learn new ways to hide things.
“Geoffrey,” I said, “there is also a filing against this house connected to your restaurant.”
His eyes widened.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“That’s impossible.”
“A commercial lender filed notice.”
“No.”
He stood abruptly.
“Allison said—”
Then he stopped.
“What?”
He stared at the papers.
“Allison said she had found a private investor.”
I felt a chill.
“What investor?”
“I don’t know.”
“She never gave you a name?”
“She said it was through a client of the firm.”
