Portia
The mat is trampled now. It should be replaced. The porch, too, looks run down, the once bright yellow paint peeling off the wooden railing, weeds growing through the floorboards.
But that's not why Callahan gave me these.
I flip through, I see their faces. I don't recognize the younger ones but the older ones I know. Uncles and others who worked for my father. The ones who left when Vincent and Gregory took over.
"How did you get these?"
"Drone. You recognize them?"
"Some."
"Keep going."
I do, my heartbeat picking up because I'm sure things are about to get worse. And they do. Fast.
It's when I see the small cabin high in the mountains that my heart sinks. It's where my father held his most important meetings. Complete privacy. I don't want to know what else he did up ther
