The Harringtons lived in a gated community with houses that could have swallowed my modest home five times over. Christine answered the door – a pretty, intelligent girl who genuinely seemed to love my son. I’d only met her twice before, but she hugged me warmly.
“Mr. Wilson! I’m so glad you could make it.”
“Please, call me Frank,” I said, handing her the bottle of wine I’d brought. Not my usual drink, but Bobby had recommended it.
The judge and his wife appeared in the foyer. William Harrington was exactly as I’d imagined – tall, stern, with silver hair and the confident posture of a man accustomed to others rising when he entered a room. His wife, Elizabeth, had the polished appearance of someone who considered cocktail parties a competitive sport.
“Frank,” the judge said, extending his hand. His grip was firm, assessing. “Christine has told us so much about you.”
