Judge Pressman sent a courier.
The letter arrived at the penthouse at two PM in a sealed envelope with the court's address in the top left corner and my name in the center in handwriting I didn't recognize. Victor Hale's handwriting, presumably. The hand of a man who had spent a decade dismantling two families was now reduced to a single envelope delivered by a stranger.
I held it for a moment without opening it.
Adrian was beside me on the sofa. He didn't ask me to hurry. He didn't reach for it. He simply sat in the specific quality of presence that I had learned was his version of holding something with you without taking it from you.
I opened it.
The letter was two pages long. Handwritten, which surprised me. I'd expected the language of lawyers to be structured, qualified, every s
