At 4:07 that morning, I called Valerie Knox.

Valerie was not a family attorney. She was not gentle. She had no interest in tea, sympathy, or emotional conversations. She specialized in corporate restructuring, contested assets, and major legal battles where people smiled across conference tables while sharpening knives beneath them.

She’d represented me for fifteen years, and I trusted her because she’d never confused compassion with strategy.

She answered on the second ring.

“Howard,” she said. “Tell me the building isn’t on fire.”

“No,” I replied. “Something worse.”