The phone rings in Ryan Armstrong's Boston penthouse at exactly nine thirty-seven PM, just as he's pouring his third whiskey of the evening. The caller ID shows a Florida number he doesn't recognize.
"Ryan Armstrong," he answers curtly.
"Ryan, this is Marcus Webb. I was at your niece's wedding today." The voice carries barely contained amusement. "You really should have been there."
I set down my glass with deliberate care. Marcus Webb owns half the commercial real estate in Orlando. We've done business before. "I had other commitments."
"Oh, you missed quite a show," Marcus continues, his tone dripping with mockery. "Your precious Chloe made an absolute fool of herself. Rejected the groom at the altar. Threw herself at her ex-husband like some desperate gold digger."
My jaw tightens. "What are you talking about?"
