Between them on the sofa sat Bradley Collins, his leather briefcase lying open across his knees.

“You’re wasting your time, Madison,” Bradley said.

He tapped his heavy fountain pen on the edge of the coffee table.

“We’ve already drawn up the preliminary filings for the November fourteenth hearing.”

On the mahogany side table next to his chair lay a pile of blue-backed court papers, along with three unredacted exhibit drafts left in full view.

“I’m here to talk about Ethan,” I said, keeping my back straight and my voice at a steady, even level.

“He’s fourteen years old, and he doesn’t belong caught in the middle of your financial maneuvers.”