better than anyone.
Panic was expensive.
“Send me the photograph,” she said.
Three minutes later, her tone changed.
The booklet claimed Northstar had agreed to become the anchor investor in a luxury senior-living development my father had been trying to finance outside Boston.
It described a “minimum two-million-dollar commitment.”
It also included language suggesting I had personally approved the partnership.
I had never seen the project.
I had never signed anything.
Olivia called again.
“They’re asking questions,” she whispered. “Dad told everyone you were coming later to make an announcement.”
