My Son Struck Me Thirty Times at His Birthday Dinner. The Next Morning, I Sold the Mansion He Thought He Owned.

I recognized one, a broad man named Ortega.

Voss glanced at them and smiled slightly.

“I see you’ve made arrangements.”

“I like to know who’s visiting.”

“So do we.”

Ortega walked up to my car and I lowered the window.

“You okay, Mrs.

Sutter?”