Chapter 6: The Man Who Always Arrived First
Rachel picked up her phone and read the message.
The color left her face.
"He's coming here," she said.
"I see that."
"How did he know where we were?"
I thought about that for exactly one second.
"Did you tell him?"
"I said I was meeting you for coffee.
I didn't say where." She looked around the café, then back at me, and something in her expression shifted.
Not fear exactly.
Recognition.
Like a word she'd been trying to remember for a long time had finally arrived.
"He tracks my phone," she said.
Not a question.
"Does he?"
She set her phone face-down on the table.
"He said it was for safety.
In case I ever broke down somewhere or got lost." She laughed once, a short hollow sound.
"I thought it was thoughtful."
We had maybe four minutes.
"Rachel, listen to me.
Don't sign anything this weekend.
Tell him you want your own solicitor to look at it first.
Just that.
Nothing else."
"He'll ask why."
"Tell him it's routine.
The same word he used."
Her mouth twitched.
Almost a smile.
"And if he pushes?"
"Then you say you're not comfortable signing something you don't fully understand, and you'd like a second opinion.
That's a completely normal thing to say.
Any reasonable person would accept that."
"David isn't—" She stopped herself.
"I know," I said.
The café door opened.
David came in smiling.
He was good at that — the smile that arrived before the rest of him, that filled the room before you'd had time to prepare.
He was dressed well, unhurried, as though he'd simply happened to be in the neighborhood.
"There you both are." He bent and kissed Rachel on the cheek, then straightened and looked at me.
"Good to see you.
Mind if I join?"
He was already pulling out a chair.
"Of course not," I said.
He sat.
Signaled the server.
Ordered an Americano with the ease of a man who had never once been told no by a room.
"So what are we talking about?" he said.
"Nothing much," Rachel said.
"Just catching up."
"Good." He looked at me pleasantly.
"You two don't see each other enough.
I always say that."
I smiled back at him.
"You're right.
We should do it more often."
He held my gaze for a moment.
Just a moment.
Then he turned to Rachel and put his hand over hers on the table — the same gesture I'd made ten minutes ago, but heavier somehow.
More deliberate.
"You look tired, love," he said to her.
"We should get you home after this."
Rachel nodded.
"Yes.
Probably."
I watched her fold.
Not dramatically.
Just quietly, like a letter being slipped back into an envelope.
I picked up my coffee.
"Actually, David," I said, "I've been meaning to ask you something."
He looked at me, still pleasant.
"Of course."
"Rachel mentioned you've been restructuring some of your investment accounts.
I was curious — are you working with an independent financial advisor, or keeping it in-house?"
One beat of silence.
Barely perceptible.
"We use a family firm," he said.
"Very experienced.
Why do you ask?"
"No reason.
A friend of mine is looking for recommendations.
I thought if you were happy with yours, I could pass the name along."
"I'll have Rachel send you the details," he said.
Not *I'll send you*.
*I'll have Rachel send you.*
"Great," I said.
"Thank you."
He smiled.
I smiled.
Rachel looked at the table.
That evening, I called Nadia again and told her about the phone tracking and the document David had asked Rachel to sign last week.
"You need to move faster than three weeks," Nadia said.
"Get her in front of a solicitor.
A real one.
And whatever you do, don't let David know you've seen that envelope."
May you like
"He already suspects something," I said.
"Then you have less time than you think."
