At the end of the hall stood the towering double oak doors to Preston’s corner conference room.

Behind them, I knew, was a small army of lawyers and advisors paid to make painful human things look like clean transactions.

I put one hand on the heavy brass handle, took a breath that tasted of recycled air and floor wax, and pushed.

Every hushed conversation stopped at once, like someone had pulled the plug on a television. A dozen faces in sharp dark suits turned toward me in synchronized shock.

Preston’s lead attorney, Marcus Vance — a man whose slick smile I’d once trusted — froze with his manicured hand on a thick leather folder.

And then, at the head of the long table, Preston looked up.