I looked down at the plain gold band on my finger.
“You could say that.”
He didn’t ask anything else.
When the car stopped at the front entrance, the door opened before I could reach for the handle.
My father stood on the steps in a navy robe over gray pajama pants, his hair uncombed, his face pale in a way I had only seen twice before: the night my mother was diagnosed, and the morning she died.
Beside him stood Rebecca Hale, our family attorney and my father’s closest friend. She was already dressed in a black suit, her silver hair pinned neatly at the back of her head, as if emergencies at one in the morning were merely part of her calendar.
The moment I stepped out, my father crossed the distance and pulled me into his arms.
For years, Jonathan Wilson had been described in business magazines as impossible to intimidate. Contractors feared his silence. City officials measured their words around him. Competitors called him cold.
