Ten minutes after the email went out, Damien was at the entrance of my building.
The doorbell rang without urgency — three rings, then silence. Even in a moment like this, he couldn't allow himself to seem out of control.
When I opened the door, he was holding a paper bag from a pharmacy. "My assistant mentioned your stomach was bothering you."
I didn't move aside. "Mr. Whitmore, if you have something to say, say it."
His gaze moved past me to the table: the battered umbrella, the zip-lock evidence bag, a draft of the cease-and-desist letter.
His expression cooled. "You actually sent it."
"Yes."
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. "Take it back."
"I can't."
"Ellie." He set the pharmacy bag on the table, his voice dropping low. "Do you have any idea how far this will
