Bradley let out a short laugh. “Great. Dad can retire with the seagulls.”

I stayed silent.

For thirty-two years I’d solved problems built on pressure and weight. I worked as a construction engineer — the man contractors called when expensive structures refused to cooperate.

I studied collapsing bridges, shifting foundations, worn steel, storm damage. I trusted numbers. Load distribution. Blueprints. If you understood where pressure traveled, you understood why something stood, or why it failed.

But there was no equation for the weight of your only child looking at you like discarded material.

Mr. Thompson slid a small envelope across the desk. Inside were two old keys, one brass, the other darkened with age. “The address is 127 Driftwood Lane, Clearwater Beach,” he said.

“It’s been unoccupied for some time, as far as I understand.”

“As far as you understand?” I asked.

He hesitated. “Helen was private about that property.”

That was putting it mildly. I had been married to Helen Miller for thirty years, and until that afternoon I had never known she owned a cabin by the coast.

Bradley tucked his copy into a leather portfolio and rose. His tailored suit fit him perfectly, the way everything in his life always had, because someone else had always covered the cost before he ever noticed it.

“This has been fun,” he said, already heading for the door. “But I have a flight to arrange. The villa needs appraising.”