hidden behind the polished exterior of our Boston brownstone. I, Gabrielle Fuller, once a promising graphic designer in New York, had becom

his champion, the man who saw a son in him and paved his path to success. His dying wish

me... you and Andr

smell of antiseptic clinging to everything. I clutched my phone, my thumb hovering over Andr

again. And again. Dozens of times, the calls went straight to voicemail, the automated voice a cold, impe

ave been the twentieth

el

nce. I recognized it instantly. Jennifer Chavez. His ex-girlfriend fro

ew? I need to speak to

smissive. "He's preparing for a pr

hanging between Boston and London. He wasn't just bu

of quiet resentment, the hollow promise I just made-i

ng a divorce," I said

I hun