“My business accounts are completely fine,” Mark said, his voice dropping into a flat, level tone.

“What were you doing looking through my private mail?”

“I was putting away the car pamphlets on your desk,” I said softly.

“I saw the red stamp from the debt recovery office on the corner.”

Sloan didn’t put her glass down.

She took a slow sip, looking straight past my head at the dark window behind me, her manicured nails tapping three times against the stem.

“You’re misreading private company documents because of your failing eyesight, Mom,” Mark said, reaching into his suit coat for his leather wallet.