After I found a parking spot I strolled between sea grapes down a boardwalk to the beach, spread a towel on the sand and waded a short distance as the sky turned a marbleized apricot and, at last, the sun peeked over the horizon.

Wendy was not a fan of sunrises. Once when we were both visiting our parents, I’d made her come with me to see what I like to call the “Seabank Special.” Off a point not far from the house where I grew up, dawn sets the sky on fire. To get there, walking through tall brush is required, something else Wendy doesn’t like. But I’d dragged her along, and when we got to the beach and dawn lit the sky I turned to watch her expression. She was looking at her cell phone screen.

“I don’t suppose you’re about to take a picture?” I asked.

“I missed a text last night. I was just checking.” She looked up. “I’ve seen sunrises, Ryan. I came with you, didn’t I?”

Now as I watched the sky brighten and three pelicans fly across the sun, I wondered why she had come that morning. To keep the peace? To show she was a good sport? To stay on my good side? I wondered if I had ever really seen my sister clearly.

In my work life, I was surrounded by eccentrics, and certainly not just the sources I interviewed for our podcast, or the crew, like Sophie and Glenn, who followed their bliss wherever it led them. Sebastian Freiman, Out in the Cold’s executive producer and backer, was eccentric in his own way, although his eccentricities made him one of the richest men in Florida.

Among other things, Sebastian owned a chain of weekly newspapers, which he devoted to stirring up controversy, as well as making sure that justice prevailed in courts and police work. Like our podcast, I’m not certain the newspapers were earning their keep or if he cared. Although I knew he started life with a trust fund, I’d never discovered all the ways Sebastian multiplied his birthright. I’d just seen plenty of evidence of the way he spent it.

Right now I was looking at one of them. Sebastian’s house—better described as a mansion—made my parents’ luxurious home in Seabank seem small and insignificant. The house was saffron-colored stucco with a red tile roof, inset tile mosaics and beautiful wrought-iron balconies and doors. Inside there were at least six bedrooms—I’d counted that many once on my way to his upstairs office. The property itself stretched from ocean’s edge to Lake Worth lagoon. Today I’d faced down two security guards to get this far.

Somebody once told me that Sebastian bought the house to help an old friend when it was about to go into foreclosure. However it happened, he made good use of it and threw amazing parties. Invitations were nearly as coveted as those to soirees at nearby Mar-a-Lago. Twice Sebastian insisted I attend. Since I grew up with parents who entertained lavishly, I knew exactly how to enjoy myself. I smiled, schmoozed, and when I could, I escaped with a plate of gourmet tidbits, one glass of white wine and another of whatever red came most recommended by the bartender. Then I’d sit behind a palm tree to people watch.