Almost noon sunlight poured through the skylights of Jefferson Memorial Rehabilitation Center in Santa Fe, New Mexico. The private courtyard looked like a gathering place for aristocrats instead of patients. Linen tablecloths fluttered in the warm breeze. Pitchers of imported sparkling water glimmered beside untouched glasses. The scent of sandalwood and roses clung to the air like perfume designed to disguise suffering.
At the center of it all sat Rafael Cortez, forty years old, in a wheelchair that cost more than most houses. He held court like a monarch trapped in a cage of steel and quiet rage. Two years earlier, he had been the face of Cortez Enterprises, a construction empire known for swallowing smaller companies whole. Now, his legs remained unmoving, reminders of a mountain-climbing accident that fractured his spine and scattered his pride across the cliffside.
Around him lounged four wealthy acquaintances: Gerard Whitmore, Mason Delacroix, Levi Chambers, and Silas Beaumont. They traded jokes the way children throw stones into rivers, careless of what might sink beneath the surface.