The invitation arrived in a silver envelope, heavier than the last one. Adam held it like it might bite him.
“You have to go,” Sandra said from the kitchen.
“I don't have to do anything.”
“It's your foundation. Your brother's name. Your speech.”
“I don't write speeches.”
“Then say what's in your heart.”
He opened the envelope. Gold lettering. Embossed logo. The Danny Kosta Foundation. First annual fundraising gala. The Grand Meridian. Saturday at seven.
“Black tie,” he read aloud.
“You own a tuxedo?”
“No.”
“Then we're going shopping.”
---
The tuxedo shop was on Fifth Street, a narrow storefront between a pawn shop and a check cashing place. The owner was an old man named Irving who'd been dressing Blackhaven's elite for forty years.
“Adam Kosta,” Irving said. “I heard about yo
