Page 117

He sighs. “I told you from the start this was uphill.”

“No, you told me you were pretty sure we could make him sweat.”

“And he is sweating. Probably.”

I almost laugh but don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

Kev keeps going. “The known-kid clause matters, but it doesn’t automatically crack open every asset Henry Benton ever touched.”

Renny. The correction rises automatically and sits behind my teeth.

“So what’s left?”

“One international property.”

My head lifts.

“The Mexico place?”

“Yeah. Casa Sirena. Puerto Vallarta.”

“Why is that still in play?”

Kev clears his throat.

“Okay, with a giant flashing disclaimer that I am not an international property expert—”

“Oh, good.”

“—and there are Mexican legal issues I am still figuring out—”

“Fantastic.”

“—but the property appears to have been held separately from the primary U.S. businesses. It’s not technically in Paul’s name. At least not cleanly.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning there may be room for us.”

I lie back on the bed and stare at the stained ceiling.

Room. The word feels better than it should.

“What kind of room? Utility closet?”

“The kind where their side would rather not spend months dealing with international property while your claim is unresolved.”

“Is it worth anything?”

Kev makes a sound that might be optimism wearing a fake mustache.

“Yeah.”

“How yeah?”

“It makes decent Airbnb income. But it’s probably worth more sold outright.”

“How much?”