The bill fell beside my shoes.

“You were always too proud,” he spat.

“And now you don’t even have your dad to bail you out.”

I felt the blood rush to my face.

My father, Walter Marlowe, had died six years earlier.

Grant knew I still kept his books and a small silver compass he’d given me before he died.

He also knew the ruling on his death, medication poisoning, had never let me rest.

“At least my dad knew how to respect people,” I answered.