My mother did not call me on Mother's Day.

Patricia Owens was sixty-one years old, five feet four, and had the courtroom manner of someone who had heard every lie at least twice before and found each new version mildly disappointing.

She called me at seven the next morning.

"I've reviewed the letter of intent," she said.

"It's garbage.

Legally speaking.

But it's expensive garbage — someone paid a real attorney to draft it in a way that looks intimidating to a layperson."

"Can he use it?"

"Not against the registered sale.

But he could use it to harass your mother in a separate civil action.

Drag it out.

Cost her time and stress." A pause.

"He's done this before, Lena.

I ran his name this morning.

There are two other properties in the county with similar patterns.

Elderly owners, financial pressure, private letters of intent signed without counsel.

In one case the family settled.

In the other, the owner d*ed before it reached court and the estate sold to him at a discount."

My hand tightened on the phone.

"I want to know everything you find," I said.

"I'll have a full picture by noon.

Go to your meeting.

Let him talk.

Don't agree to anything, don't sign anything, and keep your phone recording from the moment you walk in."

"Already planned."

"Good." She paused.

"He's going to offer you money.

Probably a lot of it.

He's going to make it sound like the generous option."

"I know."

"Just making sure you know that the number will be real.

It'll be tempting."

"Patricia," I said.

"I didn't come back here for money."

The meeting was at a coffee shop downtown — his choice, which told me something.

Public enough to seem reasonable.

Informal enough to avoid the weight of an office.

Richard Hale was already seated when I arrived.

He looked exactly like the photograph — older now, silver-haired, wearing a jacket that cost more than a month of my old diner wages.

He stood when he saw me and extended his hand with a smile that had been practiced into something almost warm.

"Ms.

Marsh.

Thank you for coming."

I shook his hand once and sat down.

"I appreciate you being open to a conversation," he said.

"I think we got off on the wrong foot yesterday."

"You called to tell me a completed legal sale was a misunderstanding," I said.

"That's not a wrong foot.

That's a position."

His smile didn't waver.

"Fair enough." He folded his hands on the table.

"I'll be direct.

I've been working on a development project in that neighborhood for three years.

Your mother's property is the last piece I need.

I made arrangements in good faith, and then the bank moved faster than expected and your offer came through before I could formalize things."

"You pressured an elderly woman into signing a document without legal counsel," I said.

"That's not good faith."

"That document was a letter of intent.

It was non-binding."

"Then why did you present it to her as though it was?"

A small pause.

The first one.

"I can offer you four hundred thousand dollars," he said.

"Cash.

Above market.

You walk away, your mother stays in the house as a tenant for as long as she wants, and we all move on."

I looked at him.

"That's a generous number," I said.

"It is."

"Why is it so generous?"

He spread his hands.

"Because I want this resolved cleanly."

"Or because the project is worth considerably more than four hundred thousand if you have that last piece, and you'd rather pay me than have me start asking questions about how you acquired the other properties on that street."

The warmth in his expression thinned by a fraction.

"I don't know what you think you know," he said.

"I know about the Delacroix property," I said.

"And the Hendersons on Maple."

I didn't know the details yet.

Patricia had mentioned two properties.

I was using the names as pressure, not evidence.

But his hands moved.

Just slightly.

Back from the table, into his lap.

"You have an attorney," he said.

"I do."