“I’ll go,” Ethan said, grabbing his wool coat from the rack.

“No,” my father replied, turning around. “I should do it. It’s my name on the door.”

“Dad, it’s dangerous,” I said, standing up to join him. “Martin is desperate enough to do anything.”

“He’s still my father-in-law, Sophie,” he said quietly. “I want to look him in the eye when his lies fall apart.”

Mr. Harrison looked up from his computer.

“I am sending this audio file to the judge’s clerk right now,” Harrison said.

“We should have a response on the emergency hearing within the hour.”

“Good,” my father said. “Let’s go.”

We walked out of the conference room and headed toward the bank of elevators.

The hallway was lined with framed photographs of completed Whitaker projects.

Beautiful brick schools, modern libraries, and sleek office buildings.

My father had built all of it with his own hands and his own mind.

And they had treated him like an embarrassment.

As we waited for the elevator, my phone buzzed in my hand, vibrating against my palm.

I looked down at the screen, expecting a text from a friend.