The next morning, they arrived at the North Texas Community Housing Foundation just before nine.
The building occupied a renovated brick schoolhouse near downtown.
Its windows were tall and bright, and a painted sign beside the entrance read:
A Home Is More Than a Roof.
Inside, a receptionist directed them to a conference room on the second floor.
Fiona was waiting near the window.
She wore a navy suit and carried a folder beneath one arm.
When she saw Logan, her expression was neither surprised nor welcoming.
It was measured, professional, and kind.
“Thank you for coming,” she said.
“Where is my father?”
“He’s in the board meeting.
They’ll finish shortly.”
“Did he know I would be here?”
“I told him you had called the foundation.”
Logan’s stomach tightened.
“And?”
“He said, ‘Then he’s ready to hear it.’”
Chelsea looked at the floor.
Fiona placed the folder on the table.
