I’d politely declined, comfortable with the modest nest egg I’d built through careful saving and conservative investments, but I’d been touched by her concern. Or at least, I’d thought it was concern.

Now, driving through the Dallas twilight toward Rick Brennan’s studio in the arts district, I wondered what I’d missed. What signs had I been too blind or too desperate to see?

Rick’s studio occupied a converted warehouse with floor-to-ceiling windows and exposed brick walls, the kind of space that screamed expensive and artistic. When I arrived, the parking lot was nearly empty, and through the windows I could see Rick pacing behind his desk, running his hands through his hair in a gesture that spoke of sleepless nights and heavy decisions.

He looked up when I pushed through the door, and even from across the room I could see the dark circles under his eyes, the unkempt beard, the rumpled shirt that suggested he’d been wearing it for more than one day“Mrs. Thompson.” He stood quickly, almost knocking over his chair. “Thank you for coming. I’ve been agonizing over whether to call you for weeks.”