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my Pacific Heights apartment, the three-bedroom condo I’d bought for $4.2 million in cash last year. Had breakfast on my terrace overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge. Did yoga. Caught up on emails from our London office.
At 10:47 a.m., my phone started ringing.
Dad. Declined.
Ashley. Declined.
Mom. Declined.
Christopher. That was new. Declined.
A number I continue reading …
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