I barely slept that night. The letter sat on my nightstand like a living thing, pulsing with everything I needed to say but could not figure out how to deliver. Around three in the morning, I gave up on rest entirely and made coffee in the dark kitchen, running through every possibility in my head. Mail it and hope it reaches him? Show up at Sterling Tower and beg a receptionist? None of it felt right.
At seven sharp, I called Reeves.
"Miss Miller," he answered, sounding like he had been awake for hours. "I was about to call you. I have more on Elena Marchetti."
"That can wait." I wrapped my robe tighter around myself. "I need a different kind of help. I wrote a letter to Arthur Sterling. I need it delivered directly to him. No assistants. No gatekeepers. His hands only. Is that somethi
