Hell yeah I’ve done the math. Four thousand square feet of prime real estate smack in the second wave of the Buckhead development, easily accessible from both Buckhead and Midtown, and an owner who’s beyond desperate to sell. A no-brainer, assuming I could cough up the money—which I can’t. Not without another investor with deep, deep pockets.

“I don’t see what this has to do with—”

“How much, Cam?”

I fight the urge to scream. The clock on my dash ticks to 5:30, and we still haven’t gotten to the payout or talked about the possibility of him writing a check for the money I need to save my family. I white-knuckle the steering wheel, my body a sizzling bundle of reflexes and raw nerves.

“A million, give or take, for the reno plus furnishings. And then there’s the cost of the building—which again, isn’t mine.”

“But it’s under contract. You put down a significant chunk of earnest money.”

“Money I’m fully prepared to walk away from. Recent developments have changed my investment strategy somewhat.”

“Are you referring to the fire?”

“I’m referring to the hole in my bank account!”

I wince at his stretch of silence.

“Look, I’m sorry. My nerves are shredded. The truth is, Bolling Way is the only shop keeping me afloat, which means I need that insurance money as soon as humanly possible. I needed it yesterday.”

“I’m afraid that’s not how this works. What do you think, that I just drive around town with a trunk full of money? I don’t even own a checkbook. There’s a process for these things, which starts first and foremost with you filing a claim. Then, once that’s approved, we have up to thirty days to process the payment. Now, I’m not saying it will take that long, but you see where I’m going with this? It’s going to take some time.”

“Okay. Well, what about an advance?”

“You could request an advance, but that’s only meant to tide you over for the first few days. Advances are typically a very small portion of the total estimated amount, and even then, it’ll be tomorrow before I can work through the paperwork.”

The reality hits me like a fist in the face—no insurance money today, no way of plugging that $700,000 hole—along with a more urgent problem: a man coming at me on the other side of the windshield. A crackhead, that much is obvious from the slant of his mouth, his vacant expression, the way his limbs flop around in a sloppy gait.

My hand reaches into the space below my seat, my fingers closing around the handle of the Smith & Wesson. I flip the safety and drag the weapon onto my lap, holding it steady.