“He’s building an empire for Chloe.”

“He’s drowning in four million dollars of debt,” I said.

I picked up my ceramic mug, left the binder open on the marble island, and walked down the long carpeted hallway to Walter’s private study.

The heavy cherry door creaked softly as I pushed it open.

The study smelled of cedar, old parchment, and stale tobacco smoke.

Victoria had taken the brass-framed family photos off the mantel, but Walter’s massive oak desk still sat in the alcove overlooking the gray water of Lake Anne.

I went behind the desk, sat down in his worn leather swivel chair, and opened the bottom right file drawer.