James Morgan sat in the living room of Willy's New York penthouse apartment, and he looked like a man on the edge of complete collapse. His usually perfect appearance was disheveled. His face was unshaven. His eyes held the desperate look of someone who had been running on inadequate sleep and excessive stress for far too long.
"I have wanted to tell you this for a long time," James said, not making eye contact with his son. "I have practiced the words a thousand times in my head. But every time I get close to saying them, I lose my nerve."
Willy sat across from his father, maintaining careful emotional distance. He was no longer certain that anything James told him was the truth. He no longer knew whether his father's love and remorse were genuine or simply another manipulation designed
