“We did.”

I had exercised the purchase option hidden inside my original lease.

A clause negotiated when nobody believed the neighborhood would become valuable.

Keating had agreed to finance part of the price.

My bank financed another portion.

I contributed my savings.

And fourteen senior employees had invested through a new entity.

Lumina Employee Holdings.

Gavin’s eyes were wet.

Lucas stared at us.

I had given the people who built Lumina beside me the opportunity to own part of the building beneath it.

Not the restaurant itself.

The foundation.

Literally.

Beatrice whispered, “You can’t do this.”

I looked at her.

“It closed at ten this morning.”

She sank into her chair.

For the first time since I’d known her, Beatrice Mercer had nothing to say.

I thought that was the end.

I was wrong.

Because Evelyn Hart began laughing.

Not loudly.

Softly.

Almost sadly.

Beatrice looked at her.

“What?”

Evelyn reached into her handbag.

“I wondered how long it would take.”

Beatrice frowned.

“For what?”

“For you to expose yourself.”

The room changed again.

I looked at Evelyn.

She placed three pages on the table.

Wire receipts.

Emails.

Names.

Then she looked at me.

“Mrs. Reyes, there is something you should know about the women sitting here.”

Beatrice went absolutely still.

Evelyn continued.

“We aren’t thirty-eight friends.”

Patricia beside her nodded.

“We’re thirty-eight investors.”

“I know.”

“No,” Evelyn said. “You don’t.”

She leaned forward.

“We came here because we already suspected her.”

Beatrice’s face went white.

Evelyn explained.

Six weeks earlier, one of the women had noticed her quarterly statement from Lumina Coastal Hospitality contained photographs copied from Lumina’s public website.

Then another discovered two projected restaurant addresses belonged to buildings that weren’t for lease.

They began comparing notes.

Different promised returns.

Different opening dates.

Different explanations.

Beatrice had kept them isolated by telling each that investment details were confidential.

But women talk.

Especially women who have known one another for twenty years.

By the previous week, seventeen of them believed something was wrong.

“So we suggested lunch here,” Evelyn said.

Beatrice whispered, “You suggested—”

“Yes.”

“You told me you wanted to celebrate.”

“We wanted to meet Camilla.”

Beatrice stared around the table.

Faces that had spent the afternoon smiling at her were no longer smiling.

Evelyn looked at me.

“We wanted to know whether you were involved.”

My chest tightened.

“And now?”

She glanced at the forged documents.

“Now we know.”

Beatrice backed away.

“You ungrateful old fools.”

Patricia stood.

“I gave you my husband’s life insurance.”

Another woman said, “I gave you my retirement account.”

A third:

“You told me my grandchildren would inherit shares.”

The accusations came one after another.

$80,000.

$120,000.

$225,000.

$300,000.

$175,000.

The numbers filled the dining room.

Elena had estimated the shell company had received about two million.