At Preston’s father, Reginald, who had spent the whole dinner boasting about the Calloway family’s construction empire.

And I said, into the phone, the words that would end Preston Calloway’s world — not a threat of violence, though he heard it as one, but something far worse for him.

“It’s time,” I said.

“Bring the files.

All of them.

He’s going to answer for what he’s done — every dollar, every lie, tonight.” Outside, the heavy iron gates of the estate slammed shut with a metallic clang that rang through the ballroom, and five black SUVs rolled up the long brick driveway, their headlights flooding the windows, and for the first time all evening, the smirk fell off my husband’s face.

I picked up my coat.