I sat in the back seat of my car, the glass of scotch untouched in the cupholder. Rain smudged across the window like someone dragging their fingers through ink. I could see the realtor waiting at the gated entrance, holding an umbrella and trying not to look nervous. He was young, in his mid-thirties, maybe thirty-seven years almost. He wore a black designer trench coat, he looked to me like the kind of guy who smiled too much and knew the price of everything and the value of nothing.

My ...