It was Friday night, the week finally over, and at home, Henley was trying to unwind with a glass of red wine. It had been a particularly difficult week. Everyone at work now seemed to want to chat with him about his father, the PEF’s ridiculous demands, and what his thoughts were on all this. His thoughts? Since when did people care about what he thought about anything?
Because he’d chosen not to follow in his father’s footsteps, people generally assumed that he was a disappointment to the Attorney General and would usually ignore or pity him.
Henley gazed out at the quiet street. He was seated in his favorite chair in the parlor, by the window. As usual, all lights were off in the nineteen century mansions across his home. This street he lived on had been carved into the rock of Mount
