Rafe stayed back at first, keeping watch like soldiers always do for one another, even across generations. Minutes passed in silence until grief hit a deeper vein and dragged truth up with it.
“They’re evicting me,” Arthur whispered, voice cracking in places no one should hear break. “The building changed hands. Rent went up. Pension didn’t. I’m out Friday. Eighty-one years old and I need somewhere to put what’s left of my life.”
He laughed, but it wasn’t humor. It was a sound like glass splintering.
Rafe’s jaw tightened.
He’d seen men lose homes overseas to bombs. Seeing it happen here to paperwork and cruelty made his blood run hotter.
Before Rafe could respond, gravel screamed somewhere behind them. A luxury SUV tore into the cemetery like reverence was just an inconvenience, dust curling around tombstones as if even the dead deserved to be disrespected.
A man stepped out.
Tailored suit. Shark-smile. Rage that assumed the world bowed to bank accounts.
Victor Langford.
Owner of Langford Realty.
