Traffic was unusually light for a Saturday in early spring.

I left the radio off so I could put my whole mind on the confrontation ahead.

The only sound in the car was the steady hum of the tires on the road.

I touched my collarbone as I wound along the residential roads leading into Belle Meade.

The houses got much bigger and farther apart, divided by tall stone walls and manicured privacy hedges.

This was the exclusive world Patricia and George Mitchell were so desperate to break into using my family’s money.