Three weeks later, the morning sun broke over the historic district of downtown Chicago, and I stood on the sidewalk across the street from a two-story brick building, nestled improbably between the gleaming modern skyscrapers that surrounded it on every side.

The windows were dusty, and the old painted sign above the entrance, faded but still legible, read: The Oak Tailor.

J.

Vance, Est.

1974. Beside me stood Arthur Pendelton, and a small team of historic-preservation architects I had brought in.

Caleb’s legal team had spent the intervening twenty-one days trying everything.

They had filed temporary restraining orders.

They had contested the validity of the marriage, and my competency, and Julian’s.