“Then Mr.

Whitmore will follow the prescribed dosing schedule,” Judge Miller said.

She tapped her fountain pen once on her desk.

“Next case.”

Cole turned his head three inches to the left.

He looked straight at me, smiled without showing his teeth, and adjusted the silver Whitmore cuff link against his white shirt cuff.

At ten minutes to four on Friday afternoon, January twenty-second, I stood in the penthouse entry hall beside two canvas bags packed with baby supplies.

The brass elevator doors chimed once and slid open.