On an Autumn Evening in Manhattan, Fifty Million Dollars Signed Away Eleven Long Years
Marcus Vance in his private consulting room on the fourth floor.
Dr.
Vance cleared his throat, a little habit of his whenever he went over a complicated file.
He was fifty-four, with short dark gray hair and gold-rimmed reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose as he leafed through my medical history.
“I printed the routine release forms you asked for, for your personal records, Vivian,” he said, keeping his voice low and precise.
“Thanks, Marcus,” I said.
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