“You have twenty-four hours,” I said. “After that, the offer expires, and I’ll file a fraud complaint.”
I hung up before they could answer.
Vincent leaned back in his chair.
“Do you realize they’ll probably refuse?”
“I’m counting on it,” I said. I stood up, picking up my bag. “Now I have to go to the bank myself.”
The next twenty-four hours passed in a whirlwind of paperwork, phone calls, and quiet meetings in the Milfield offices. People who had known me for decades—who knew me and Nicholas—stepped forward with information, signatures, and support. Not out of pity, but out of respect, and perhaps a hint of pleasure at seeing the Canton boys, who had abandoned their hometown for more attractive places, receive their just punishment.
By evening, I’d moved into a small apartment above Lucille’s Bakery. The owner, Lucille Brennan, had been my friend since our children started kindergarten together.
“Stay as long as you need,” he said, pressing the key into my palm. “That boy of yours has never been kind to this city. Not to you and Nicholas.”
That night I slept surprisingly well, lulled by the familiar scent of bread and pastries rising from downstairs.
