It broke him. Reginald’s legs folded, and the proud head of the Pembroke family dropped to his knees on the cold floor, staring at the broken glass — his money, his power, his whole polished life coming down at once.

“Please,” he wept, tears streaking his red face. “Please, Mr. Sanders. Sixty million — we don’t have it. If you call it, we lose everything. The house, the cars.

We’ll be on the street!”

Alistair looked down at him without pity. “You should have thought about that,” he said, “before you told my wife to raise our son in the gutter.”

Barbara bolted from her chair toward my bed, hands outstretched. “Florence! Help us! Talk to him!”

She never reached me. Alistair signaled the security guards to end it.