By nine o'clock the following morning, the storm finally broke over the Blackwood estate.
Three sleek black SUVs pulled up the winding gravel driveway, stopping directly in front of the grand manor. Half a dozen men in dark suits stepped out into the bright morning sun, carrying leather briefcases and heavy tablet computers. They were not police officers, and they were not reporters. They were the senior auditors from the S.L. Group, accompanied by two court-appointed marshals.
The heavy front doors opened with a slow creak, and Adrian stepped out onto the porch.
He looked terrible. His white shirt was rumpled, his hair messy, and his eyes bloodshot from a long night of heavy drinking. He held a crystal glass of dark liquor in his right hand, staring blankly at the men walking up his ma
