They had spent the morning teaching Rafaela her place.

It had not occurred to any of them, not once, that she might have one they couldn’t see.

And it certainly had not occurred to them that the quiet woman in the wet coat, trudging up a mountain road with her head down, was connected to the exact deal that stood between Ashvale Manor and the foreclosure it had been outrunning for two years.

The worst of it, though, was still ahead of them — because Rafaela had not spent that long cold walk feeling sorry for herself.

She had spent it thinking very clearly about everything she knew.

Chapter 10 — Forty-Seven Missed Calls