The paper cup of black coffee Julian handed me the next morning was too hot to hold, warming my palms as I sat in the corner of his office on Court Street.
Behind his desk, Julian adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses by the bridge and pointed to the small man sitting in the green armchair beside me.
This was Detective Adams, a thirty-year veteran of the seventy-eighth precinct who kept his heavy winter coat zipped to his chin despite the heat in the room.
“Your brother-in-law has been on our radar since November, Mr. Miller,” Adams said, tapping a yellow legal pad with a cheap yellow pencil.
I set the coffee down on the corner of Julian’s desk, carefully avoiding a stack of legal briefs. “My sister came to the hospital yesterday. She said they wanted to make things right.”
“Chloe is trying to protect her own interests,” Julian said in his deliberate legal monotone. “She knows what is coming.”
