Boston Real Estate, a Greenwich Mansion, and Five Attorneys
“Tell her she’s wrong.”
Julian said nothing.
He was looking at his phone again.
The screen glowed, and a name popped up at the top of a message.
He slid the phone into his pocket and pressed both hands flat on the table.
“That loan was only supposed to be temporary,” he said.
“The investors were supposed to come through.”
“There aren’t any investors,” I said.
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