The envelope still lay open on the table, edges curling from damp. Brandon hadn’t slept. The photograph burned through his mind—a contract his father had denied, bearing the Hughes seal. Proof of corruption, or bait laid perfectly?
By morning, the rain hadn’t stopped. The knock came again—three measured taps that broke through the silence. He already knew who it was.
James Whitmore strolled in without waiting for an invitation, shaking off his umbrella like he owned the place. “You look awful,” he said cheerfully. “Which means you’re finally ready to listen.”
Brandon’s jaw flexed. “You show up at my door in the middle of the night with this—” he tapped the photo, “—and you think I’m just going to thank you?”
James’s smile didn’t falter. “You could. But I’d prefer gratitude in writing.”
