“That offer expired,” I replied. “You get to stay out of jail. That’s all.”
I hung up, set down the phone, and stared out the window of Vincent’s office at the town where I’d spent my entire adult life. Across the street, the farmers’ market was setting up, just as it did every Thursday. People moved about their business, greeting neighbors, examining produce, living normal lives where children didn’t abandon mothers on roadsides.
“They’ll fight,” Vincent said, setting a cup of tea beside me.
“Let them.” I didn’t touch the tea. “I have one more call to make.”
I dialed a number I’d memorized decades ago but rarely used.
“Robert, it’s Naomi Canton. I think it’s time I called in that favor.”
Robert Wilson had been Nicholas’s roommate at Penn State before either of them met me. They’d remained friends even after Robert moved to Philadelphia to start what would become one of the largest real estate law firms in the state. Thirty years ago, Nicholas had loaned Robert money when his first firm collapsed—money that helped rebuild a practice now known for tearing predatory developers apart in court.
